


The Thief of Spades: Season Two

by alifeasvivid



Series: The Thief of Spades [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Detective/Thief AU, Multi, Smut, UKUS, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, plot-relevant smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 06:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/pseuds/alifeasvivid
Summary: Don't make promises to me that you're gonna break, we only ever wanted one thing from this. Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away...Alfred F. Jones, the brash Thief of Spades and Detective Inspector Arthur Kirkland continue their dance.





	1. The Prince and the Pauper

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Season 2!!! I'm so excited! More UKUS goodness is promised ;)
> 
> Arthur meets Gabriel’s partner and is dragged back into the fray. A prince attempts to strike a deal with a pauper.

“Ah, Inspector!” Gabriel greets Arthur warmly as he enters the familiar conference room. “I’m pleased you could join us.”

“Oui! Mon ami, it has been too long!” Francis says, leaping up from his seat to throw his arm around Arthur, kissing him congenially on the cheek though it lingers a bit.

Gabriel digs his thumb into Francis’ collarbone and pulls him away from Arthur. “Hedevary might have let you get away with sexual harassment, Bonnefoy, but rest assured, Agent Clark and I will not, am I understood?” He turns to Arthur. “If he gives you any trouble, let me know immediately.”

The new CIA agent is suddenly much more endeared to Arthur than he had been.

“It is all for fun, Agent Costa. No need to have such a stick up your—”

Ludwig coughs pointedly. “Good morning, Arthur. It is good to see you again,” he says affably, holding out his hand for Arthur.

Arthur shakes his hand firmly. “Likewise, Ludwig, although I do have other tasks to accomplish today, so if we could make this brief, I’d appreciate it.”

Gabriel nods. “Of course. We are only waiting for Agent Clark.”

As if on cue, the door opens, revealing a woman who can’t be taller than 162 cm with bright green eyes, delicate cheekbones and one of the most severe expressions Arthur has ever seen on a person. She adjusts her glasses primly and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, though the rest of it is wound up in a braided bun.

“Alice!” Gabriel exclaims. “Impeccable timing as always. Inspector, this is my partner, Agent Alice Clark. She’s on loan from MI6.”

“Strange,” Alice retorts, “I thought you were on loan from the CIA.”

“We are on loan to each other,” Gabriel jokes dashingly.

Alice rolls her eyes.

“MI6, hmm?” Arthur says. “Odd, you don’t look like a mindless government buffoon,” he teases.

Alice seems to miss the good-natured intent and looks him up and down, scanning him with intense precision. “I suppose I could say the same about you,” she retorts dryly, “though I can’t say I see what all the fuss is about. You seem quite ordinary.”

“Yes well, if you ever figure it out, please let me know. I’m at a loss myself,” Arthur replies, suddenly remembering how much he hadn’t missed these meetings at all.

Alice’s lips quirk just slightly and she appraises Arthur again in a manner which indicates she respects his humility at the very least. “Alright, everyone please pay attention.” On the projection screen, she brings up a photo of well-appointed estate next to the photo of a man roughly in his late-thirties. “This estate once belonged to a marquess, but is now the property of Anglo-American tech mogul, Marcus Taylor. He’s best known for creating one of those little listening devices big tech companies convince people to put in their houses. Honestly, what a brilliant idea.” Alice laughs at her own little joke and Arthur notices Gabriel smiling fondly at her.

“Taylor is notoriously paranoid,” Gabriel jumps in, “so while the current blueprints are not available to the public, copies of the originals are still accessible through the Bodleian library, as well as two more schematics from the mid 1800’s and the early 1900’s. They are not much use to anyone, but regardless, Taylor has them flagged so that if they are requested several times in short succession, he gets an alert.”

“And someone matching the description of dear little Alfred has been checking them out, is that what you will say next?” Francis chimes in.

Alice raises her eyebrow at him. “Precisely. Taylor is a collector of modern art and the mansion on the estate currently houses several pieces. We believe one of them to be the the Thief of Spades’ next target. We need to figure out which one and then we need to apprehend him.”

Arthur gazes at the photo of the manor. He wonders what Alfred has planned. The thief has always had little interest in modern art, so unless Marcus Taylor has a stash of gems hidden somewhere in his fancy house, Arthur has doubts that Alfred has any serious intention on robbing it.

He looks around the room. Ludwig is scribbling in a notebook while Francis pours over the current blueprints of Taylor’s house and photos of the art pieces kept there. Alice is working at her computer and Gabriel appears to be flipping through previous Thief of Spades case files.

Arthur has once again left the real world for the bizarre realm of white collar mysteries and international intrigue and if there’s anything he knows about this world, it’s to keep his suspicions about Alfred to himself…

…at least until he can figure out what the thief is up to for himself.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“Oh jeez, I’m sorry!” Twenty-three year old Matthew Williams apologizes and bends down to pick up his books after bumping into someone while on his way back to the library.

The Thief of Spades kneels down to help the frazzled Oxford student with a kind smile on his face and a mischievous spark in his eyes. “You’re totally fine, don’t worry about it.” As the two stand, Alfred hands the papers he collected back to the Canadian. “No harm done,” he says with no small amount of his signature charm.

“Thanks, eh,” Matt says as he rearranges his books and papers in his arms. “You American or—?” He pauses when he actually looks up at who he had bumped into. The guy could easily be his brother or even his twin, though he has a very distinctive enigmatic aura about him. “Woah,” he says. “I’m sorry it’s just… woah.”

“Yeah, we look a lot alike, don’t we?” Alfred says conversationally. “I actually want to talk to you about that. Wanna get a drink?”

Matt eyes the man suspiciously and holds his books tightly against his chest. “Have you been following me?”

Alfred ducks his head a little to make a good show of seeming sheepish. “Only since I saw you about a week ago when I was using the library here to do research. I couldn’t believe it, you know? But, you see, I could really use your help. Let me buy you a drink and hear me out. If you say no, I’ll never bother you again, I swear.”

“Um. No.” Matt snaps sharply. He turns on heel and begins walking swiftly away from the stranger, thinking if he should call the police.

“Suit yourself, but I’ve got a proposition for you. It would mean no more of those pesky student loan payments.”

Matt stops in his tracks. “I’m Canadian, you idiot. I don’t have massive student debt,” he bluffs.

Alfred takes a few careful steps closer. “Sure you do. You’ve got dual citizenship, haven’t you, Mr. Williams? You foolishly chose to go to college in the US and now you’ve got about… oh what is it? Sixty-five thousand, seven hundred and twenty-three dollars in debt? Give or take? Plus whatever you’re racking up here at this ultra-fancy establishment of higher learning.”

Matt’s brain starts buzzing as he turns around to glare at the stranger. “How do you know _any_ of that?”

Alfred’s face turns serious. “Listen. I could have played around with you. I could have gotten to be your friend and led you on and pretended to discover all this information from you directly, but, quite frankly, that seems disrespectful, dishonorable, and like it’d be a waste of time. So either you can come with me and have a drink and hear me out or I can disappear right now and you’ll be left wondering forever, always looking over your shoulder.”

Thinking that he is truly in the company of the strangest person he’ll ever meet, Matt finds himself actually intrigued. “Fine. I’ll go with you, but I don’t consume alcohol in the middle of a term.”

Alfred shrugs and grins, pleased to have hooked his serendipitous doppelgänger into at least listening to his proposal. “Coffee then. It’s better if you’re sober anyway. My name’s Alfred, by the way.”

“I’m Matt, though it seems you already know that.”

“Yup. Come on, I know a good place.” Alfred turns and starts walking, only throwing one surreptitious glance over his shoulder to make sure Matt is following him.

Once the waitress at the cafe brings their coffee, Matt pipes up, “Are you some kind of spy or government agent? I’m a biology student. I’m only working on my Masters, I don’t have access to any sort of secret information.”

Alfred laughs. “I know, that’s not it. I’m only interested in you because you look a hell of a lot like me. In my… line of work, I often find myself needing to be in two places at once.”

“You need an alibi,” Matt says flatly. “Don’t sugarcoat it. If you’re not with the government, then you’re a criminal of some kind, right?”

“So they say,” Alfred replies casually. “It all depends on your definition.”

“Spoken like a true felon,” Matt quips. He freezes as a horrifying thought occurs to him. “You’re not a murderer, are you? Because if you are, I’m leaving right now.” He doesn’t think he’ll get an honest answer, but his moral compass compels him to ask.

Alfred’s lip curls in disgust. “No. I don’t hurt anyone. I… relocate certain valuable objects from one place to another… on occasion.”

The look on Alfred’s face is so poignant that it convinces Matt enough to stay and listen at least. “So you’re a thief. Fine. I guess I can deal with that. So what’s this proposition, exactly?”

Alfred grins. “I just need you to be seen in certain places at certain times. I promise it won’t be frequent. I also promise to never bullshit you, so I’ll tell you it could be dangerous for you. And, of course, if it comes down to it, I’d always get you out, but there’s a chance you could get arrested if we don’t play our cards right.”

“Then why for fuck’s sake would I ever agree to it?”

Alfred takes a sip of his coffee. This is the fun part. “Because if you agree, I will pay off all your student loans.”

Matt’s eyes go wide.

“And I will finance your Master’s degree, including room and board. Books. Food. Whatever you need. If you agree to help me right now, all of that is guaranteed. If you become very useful to me, I might be persuaded to finance your doctorate, that is, should you decide to pursue one.”

Matt chokes and then coughs and then turns red and looks down at his coffee. “I’m not sure I want my education to be bankrolled by a criminal.”

Alfred shrugs. “Suit yourself. I don’t need you, exactly, but it would make my life easier to have someone like you around. Take it or leave it. Like I said, if you say no, then you’ll never see me again, I swear.” He stands up and throws a few quid on the table, more than enough to pay for the coffee. He hands Matt a slip of paper with an email address on it. “If you decide to accept my offer, use this. Or give it to a government agency of your choosing. Or just toss it. It’s up to you.”

He walks out the door, leaving Matt Williams, a twenty-three year old Canadian biology student at Oxford who happens to have the same face as the Thief of Spades, with a lot to think about.


	2. Terms and Conditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets a call from Kiku. Alfred gets a wake up call he’s not prepared to answer yet.

Arthur has the house to himself for the evening and he uses the time to go over case files he’s not even certain he’s allowed to have, but that he took anyway. There’s just no possible way that Alfred is interested in any of the pieces in Taylor’s manor. The best course of action would be to investigate the house itself, but Taylor has so far been fairly cagey about allowing anyone in, insisting that they must be capable of capturing the Thief of Spades long before he is able to get anywhere near the estate.

Arthur hasn’t told anyone that Alfred has probably already been inside the estate and it is likely that no one even noticed him or that they may have even let him walk right through the front door.

He jumps when his phone suddenly rings. The caller id reads only “KH” which is attached the number Kiku Honda had told him to use only for emergencies. He somehow doubts that rule applies in reverse.

He checks the time. His mum won’t be home for another hour or so. “Hello?” he says after accepting the call.

“Inspector Kirkland, it is nice to speak to you again,” Honda’s voice says on the other end.

Arthur frowns. The billionaire’s strict adherence to formality is a little strange to him. “Thank you,” he says in a tone which might convey a respectful bow. “It is good to hear from you, Mr. Honda.”

“You will recall, Mr. Kirkland, that I am allowing Alfred to remain in the United Kingdom on the agreement that you will look after him,” Honda says in a casual tone which does little to conceal the seriousness of his purpose.

Arthur leans back against the sofa and scrubs his hand through his untamable hair. “I do remember something to that effect, yes.”

“Good. You are still intending to hold up your end of this deal, yes?”

“Well, I—”

“If you are not intending on it, if you no longer care for Alfred, then I will be more than happy to move him. It would be much more convenient for me if he were in Japan and I could keep a closer eye on him myself. Or perhaps eastern Europe where Ivan could watch over him.”

“No!” Arthur answers, bolting upright before he can even think through the implications of his answer. “I… didn’t realize that there was anything specific you were asking of me.”

“You still care for him, then?”

Arthur swallows thickly. He can barely admit it to himself, yet he must answer honestly if he is to satisfy Honda. The man hardly seems the type to make idle threats. “Yes, although I wish I knew what he thinks of me.”

“I think it is highly unusual for him to remain interested in anyone or anything for this long,” Honda says, “if that information helps you. One who knows him might even think that a person with whom he is so fascinated might be capable of changing the way he currently lives his life, but, of course, only Alfred can know his own mind.”

Arthur hums absently and is still trying to untangle Honda’s words when the man speaks again.

“What I am asking of you, Mr. Kirkland, is to protect my dear friend from any harm that is in your power to prevent.”

“You’re being deliberately vague there,” Arthur replies tersely.

“I am not asking you to lay down your life, nor am I necessarily asking you to betray your own morals, but I am saying that it is very time-consuming and expensive to extract a prisoner from an intelligence agency’s grasp and if I must mount such an operation again, I will likely consider it no longer worth the effort to let Alfred remain so far away.”

Arthur can’t shake the feeling that he’s being threatened, but he isn’t really. He could let Kiku Honda or Ivan Braginski come and take Alfred away to any place where they would have an easier time keeping him safe and his life would go entirely back to normal. Yet, Honda is promising to take something… something _important_ away from Arthur, something he feels certain he cannot lose, even if he can’t properly explain why.

“These are the terms, Inspector. I trust that a man as intelligent as you is capable of understanding them. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” Arthur says firmly. “I will look after him.”

There’s a lightness to Kiku’s tone when he replies. “Good. Very good. Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.”

“Th-thank you also,” Arthur says, hoping that is the correct response. “But I am curious. Why is it that you are so protective of Alfred?”

There’s a long silence. “As I have said before, he is entertaining for me, but I also owe him a great debt. I promised myself to take care of him and help him live life whichever way he chooses. Although, I would feel protective of him anyway, I think. You must understand this impulse as well, right, Inspector?”

“Perhaps,” Arthur says.

“One last thing. If you would like to know what Alfred thinks of you, I would suggest you go and ask him yourself. I imagine he would respond well as long as you don’t let him slip away.”

“I don’t know where he—” Arthur says, but the call has already been ended.

An instant later, a text message with an address lights up Arthur’s screen. It’s for a pub halfway to the other side of the city. It’s a bit of a trek, but Arthur immediately thinks of the the last time he saw Alfred. From what he knows about Alfred, he doubts the thief will be as straightforward as Honda said, but perhaps at the very least, Arthur can get an answer about the one kiss that still makes his entire body burn at just the memory of it.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Alfred compulsively checks his email as he has done several times an hour since he made his proposal to Matt Williams. Matt had really shocked Alfred when he’d first caught sight of the student. It had been in the library, like he’d said. Matt had been standing in line to check out books while Alfred had been on his way to history section.

He’d had to do a double take and forcibly stop himself from staring. Matt does have longer, slightly wavy hair and his eyes are a different shade of blue, but their bone structure is nearly identical and he even wears glasses like Alfred does and his lopsided, shy smile reminds Alfred of the one he himself used to have when he was much younger.

But Alfred is true to his word and he waits for Matt to contact him, if he decides to do so. He hasn’t received emails from anyone else on that address, so at least the student didn’t give it away. That’s promising.

In the meantime, he sits in the back of a booth in the back of a familiar pub where he eats almost all of his meals. The pub is a safe distance from his flat and the family which owns it now knows him very well.

Looking over his current research, he hopes he won’t have to go back to the university library. Marcus Taylor’s alert on the blueprints will have definitely been set off by now. It wasn’t ideal, but it had to be done. The plans aren’t much good for most of the house, Alfred knows, but the manor’s library pre-dates Taylor and has been the least modified space in the whole house and there is a book in that room he wants. If everyone is on alert for the ridiculous modern art pieces, they won’t be paying much attention to the library. As Alfred has learned, Taylor doesn’t pay much attention to it himself.

“Aflie, luv,” the waitress says to get Alfred’s attention. “There’s a bloke at the front of the house looking for you. You said I should warn you if that happened. He looks like a policeman too, just has that air about him.”

Alfred beams at her. “Thanks, Emma, you’re the best.”

“Anything for you, dear,” the waif of a woman replies, a pleased rosy color crossing her cheeks. “He’s a handsome one though, I’ll say that.”

As she walks away, Alfred swiftly stashes all of his research and his notebook in his bag. It’s Inspector Kirkland. He knows it is. Who else would it be? As much as Alfred wants to stay, he knows he can’t.

He slips out the kitchen door and is halfway between the pub and his flat before he’s thrown into the arched doorway of a darkened building. The initial rush of terror is quelled instantly by the sight of familiar green eyes, though the expression in them triggers a rush of something else entirely. “G-good evening, Inspector Kirkland,” he tries to say smoothly.

Arthur steps as close as possible, caging Alfred in. He seems almost as breathless as Alfred. “Why did you run?”

Alfred’s eyes shift searchingly over the detective’s face, but it’s inscrutable as ever. “I didn’t. Just wanted to get home is all.”

Arthur briefly turns his eyes from Alfred to scan the street. “Home is near here, then?”

“N-no!” Alfred counters quickly, turning bright red.

Arthur raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “Relax, lad. Honda told me where to find you.”

Kiku? He’s in contact with Arthur? What’s that sly bastard playing at? Alfred wonders. He can’t wonder for long though as he leans into Arthur’s hand on his cheek on pure reflex, eyes closing at the feel of calloused fingers against his skin. “Why?” Alfred asks, if only to distract himself from Inspector Kirkland’s proximity.

Arthur’s hand moves from Alfred’s cheek, back through his hair and then repeats the cycle again. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

Arthur is different right now. The mask of professionalism has been dropped and Alfred sees what he’d only had glimpses of before: something he cannot name, yet wants so much more than any gem or fine work of art he’s stolen over the past few years. If he could steal what he sees now, he thinks he might never commit a heist ever again. “What question is that?”

“Your obsession with beauty,” Arthur starts softly, leaning in until his lips are brushing Alfred’s ear, “do you think it’s contagious?”

Alfred shivers and his knees buckle, causing him to fall into Arthur’s arms where he is held securely.

Arthur backs him against the wall, removing Alfred’s glasses and placing them in the thief’s coat pocket. He brushes his thumbs over Alfred’s reddened cheeks, staring at Alfred so intently that he wants to look away from Arthur, but can’t. Arthur feathers his lips against Alfred’s, little more than an exchange of breath.

Alfred tries to kiss back, but his brain is surely melting out of his ears and he can do nothing but submit himself to Arthur’s mercy.

Although it seems Arthur has none because next, he kisses Alfred deeply, so slowly that Alfred can’t keep up. Arthur’s mouth ravishes his with nibbling teeth and insistent tongue and all Alfred can do is quiver and gasp and try to stay upright by clinging to Arthur, hands gripping the detective’s shoulders.

After what feels like forever, yet only one small second, Arthur draws back and observes Alfred once more. He might as well be trying to peer into Alfred’s soul. “Is that all it is?” he murmurs, completely serious.

The parts of Alfred’s brain that didn’t dissolve try to make sense of the question. “What?”

“Your obsession with beauty. Tell me that’s not all it is.” Arthur looks at him sternly, almost sadly.

Alfred catches onto the detective’s meaning, but doesn’t know if he even knows the real answer. He’s never stopped to think about it before, except during the midst of delirium in solitary confinement, taking it for granted that Arthur’s gorgeous face and sharp mind appealed only to Alfred’s innate curiosity and aesthetic sensibility and nothing more. “I—”

A sparkling burst of sound erupts from Arthur’s pocket and in the moment Arthur looks down to see who the call is coming from, Alfred takes the opportunity to disappear into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are placed on pedestals and treasured forever.


	3. The Blind Leading the Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur confronts his feelings; Abigail is sympathetic. Alfred has an existential crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wolfish grin* This chapter is rated M+

_My hands are tied, but not tight enough; you’re the high that I can’t give up...  
_-Avicii feat. Rita Ora “Lonely Together”

_Bollocks_. The call is a spammer and Arthur curses himself for even giving it a glance. Alfred is a master escape artist and has vanished without a trace in the few moments it took Arthur to check his phone and dismiss the call.

The stunned look on Alfred’s face as Arthur had pulled away, lips swollen, eyes wide, chest heaving, is burned into Arthur’s brain. The thief’s shock once he realized what Arthur was asking had been very evident and given what Arthur knows about the elusive young man, he wouldn’t find it the least bit surprising if Alfred had simply never thought about it before.

Arthur shakes his head, almost smiling, and slumps back against the door, replaying the kiss over in his mind, relishing the taste of Alfred’s lips lingering on his tongue. Alfred hadn’t responded to Arthur’s question with words, but the soft noises he’d made, the way he’d clung to Arthur so tightly, and how easily and willingly he’d surrendered control all gesture toward an answer which Arthur finds irresistibly compelling.

It’s lucky that the detective has good control over his impulses because the desire to chase after Alfred, despite having no idea where he went, and kiss him again, hold him down and kiss him for hours is nearly overwhelming.

Instead, Arthur hails a cab and goes home. By the time he walks in the door, the memory of how it felt to kiss Alfred has lost none of its wonder, but it leaves him hollow and vaguely aching.

Abigail sits on the sofa with her needlepoint. “There you are, Artie. I was starting to get worried.”

“I’m okay, Mum,” Arthur replies absently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s fine, dear. Are you certain you’re alright? You look rather… stricken.”

Arthur drops down onto the sofa next to her, holding his face in his hands. “He’s a thief, right. He’s a criminal. There’s not a single doubt in my mind of that,” he mumbles.

Abigail sets aside her project at the mention of Alfred. “Is he alright? He’s not hurt again, is he?”

Arthur looks at her, brow creased and green eyes lost in their own depths. “No. He’s… he’s perfectly fine.”

Abigail rests her hand on her son’s back. “Then what’s the matter, dear? You seem very distressed.”

Arthur shakes his head and hides in his hands again. He laughs dryly, almost coughs. “Bloody hell. I must be mad, Mum. I feel as though— I don’t know. I must be mad because I think I might be in love with him.”

Abigail bites her lip hard to keep from smiling. “I know, Artie. I know.”

Arthur turns to her. “You know?”

Abigail brushes his chronically unruly blond hair back from his face and rests her hand on his cheek. “I’ve had my suspicions for awhile now, but I know you don’t like me mucking in your business, so I kept it to myself. Even so, I’m still your mum and you wear your heart on your sleeve, same as me. Although, I will say, international thief or not, I like Alfred much better than that last young man you were with.”

Arthur does laugh at that, mostly from the break in tension. “Honestly? Me too.” He leans against his mother’s shoulder. “I went and saw him tonight. Alfred, I mean,” he says after a moment.

“Oh?” Abigail says, picking up her needlepoint again. “How did you know where to find him?’

Arthur opens his mouth, “I— ah…”

Abigail smiles and shakes her head. “Right. Right. It’s all classified. Top secret. Hush hush. So what happened then?”

Arthur frowns, the ache intensifies and he hesitates before answering. “I don’t know. I must have frightened him or… I don’t know. He ran off.” He stares blankly at the files he’d neatly stacked still sitting on the coffee table. “What am I going to do, Mum? I have serious doubts that I’ll be removed from the case any time soon, regardless of whether or not I tell anyone. I don’t know if I can help him if he continues on as he has and I’m not convinced that I _should_ help him. Even if I’m—you know, he’s still a criminal and I’m still a police officer.”

Abigail’s fingers are busy with her needlepoint, but she turns and quickly kisses the top of Arthur’s head, which is still resting on her shoulder. “I’ve said it before. You’re a smart lad, Artie. Smart as I’ve ever known and I’m not saying that just because you’re my son. You’ll think of something.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Alfred doesn’t run home because running is a sure-fire way to draw unwanted attention, but he hurries. He drops his bag and shucks off his coat at the front door of his flat, making sure to retrieve his glasses from the pocket. That alone makes him sigh wistfully, remembering how Inspector Kirkland had so gently removed them.

He throws himself onto his chair in front of his jeweler’s bench, sprawling out and inhaling deeply. He turns on the overhead light and slumps down haphazardly in his seat. His legs splay out under the bench and his forearms rest heavily on the arms of the chair. His brows knit in a deep, thoughtful pout.

_Is that all it is? Your obsession with beauty?_

Inspector Kirkland’s words torment Alfred even if the mere memory of being kissed by him has Alfred’s body alight with that same tickling feeling he gets from seeing some new bauble he wants to possess.

It’s a reasonable enough question, Alfred thinks. Arthur wants to know if Alfred’s fascination with him is more substantial than it might appear at first. Yes, it’s a perfectly reasonable question, only it’s the one Alfred has forgotten to ask himself… or has avoided asking himself.

Alfred gradually straightens himself in the chair. He picks up the wax he’s still carving for the ring he intends to make for Arthur.

_No, that’s not all it is._ Clearly.

But what is it, then? Alfred finally asks himself as he rubs the hard wax mindlessly with his thumb. The answer should be obvious enough: the carving is sized to Arthur’s left ring finger. Yet. Alfred places the mold back on the bench. A bubble of delirious disillusionment expands in his chest, bursting out with a wry, “ha!”

Alfred knows above everything else that he can’t _have_ Arthur. He can’t _be_ with Arthur. He definitely can’t ever _marry_ Arthur, even if finally explicitly thinking about it makes Alfred’s heart race. He could make the most beautiful ring in the world for the beautiful detective, he could even present such a thing to Inspector Kirkland, but it would always be a futile gesture.

No one can be allowed to enter Alfred’s world. Many people exist in its orbit, but he inhabits it alone. It wasn’t always that way, but it is now. It has been since the moment he started planning his revenge against his former mentor.

Alfred’s life is safer, both for him and everyone else, if he is the only one who lives in it.

Only now, for the first time in nearly five years, Alfred can admit he is not at peace with that fact, with his decision to only interact with everyone on a superficial level. It’s so lonely and if he focuses on it, he knows he can’t stand it, but he hardly has any idea how to relate to people in any other way. What would anyone even see if they truly looked at him now? If Arthur saw him like this, saw him pensive and serious, saw past the Thief of Spades’ cheeky flirtations, would he still have kissed Alfred the way he did?

A resounding “maybe” is all he can come up with and it’s not good enough.

_Tell me that’s not all it is._

The ragged tone in the inspector’s voice conveyed the meaning very well: Arthur _wants_ Alfred’s fascination with him to be more substantial than it might appear at first. This knowledge would be promising if Alfred had the luxury of indulging in his feelings, if he could ask Arthur for the thing he wants most, but won’t name.

Despite knowing better, he can’t, won’t, let go of Arthur.

Alfred stands up from his chair, placing the wax back on the bench and turning off the lamp. He moves toward the bedroom, shedding his clothing as he goes, heedless of where any of it lands. He doesn’t bother to turn on the light and when he hits the mattress, he is left only in a light t-shirt and his boxer briefs. He places his glasses and phone on the nightstand.

The bedroom is the tidiest room in the apartment. Where the other rooms are filled with paintings and sculptures, with opulent furniture and notebooks full of research and ideas, the bedroom is calm and minimal. The walls are a soothing, cool gray, the bed frame is modern, and the mattress is luxurious and plush.

Alfred stretches out on it in the dark, running his tongue over his lips. He remembers not only Arthur’s mouth claiming his so thoroughly, but the strength and ease with which Arthur had held him, just like when they had danced together. No, he cannot let go. Alfred wishes now that he hadn’t run. He should have stayed and let Arthur kiss him for hours.

He should have brought Arthur back here so they could do more than kiss, as objectively foolish as that would have been, but he reminds himself he wouldn’t have to make space in his world for Arthur if all the detective wants is sex, which is entirely possible.

A soft moan escapes Alfred as a flush of hot desire floods through his veins. He relishes it, particularly now, knowing how it feels to dance with Arthur, knowing how it feels to be kissed by him. Alfred’s imagination readily supplies anything else needed to construct an exquisite fantasy of how it would feel to have Arthur over him, surrounding him, filling him. His hand drifts between his legs and he tugs his arousal free. His strokes are long, almost gentle at first, but he works himself up quickly before backing off.

Arthur would do that. Arthur would bury himself inside Alfred and not grant him release so soon. Arthur would tease him and make pithy remarks in a husky tone, like telling him how bad he is or smirking and saying something like, “Is it really this easy to turn the ‘bandit of shovels’ into a whimpering mess?” and Alfred would try to laugh, but everything would feel too _good_, so he’d just moan instead.

Alfred edges himself, closer and closer each time, arching his hips off of the bed. “A-ah,” he gasps as his arousal leaks clear fluid and his thumb smears it over the head, even as an emptiness blooms inside him.

God, what if Arthur were watching him right now? Instructing him? Alfred can almost hear the commands in that same ragged tone Arthur had earlier, “Slow down, love.” Alfred slows down.

“Very good, now harder.” Alfred squeezes himself tighter, still maintaining a languid pace.

“Bit faster there, darling, that’s it.” Increasing in speed, Alfred’s legs spread reflexively and a high keening noise escapes him. He shoves two of his fingers in his mouth because he just needs something, anything to make that empty feeling go away.

Arthur’s bright green eyes would darken at Alfred’s display as he twists on the bed to slide his fingers inside himself. It stings just a little because it’s been awhile, but he imagines Arthur doing it instead, still instructing him to stroke himself, and his body suddenly opens up much more easily.

“Faster, Alfred.” Oh, to hear Arthur say his name in that tone. Both of his hands work at the same heightened pace and he cries out as his fingers brush that one particular spot.

“That’s it, love. Brilliant. Now come for me.”

Alfred does not need his imagination to tell him twice. His orgasm crashes over him like a tidal wave and he all but sobs as he rides it out. When it’s over, he melts into the mattress, a shaking mess, wanting Arthur more than ever.

It’s time to break this troublesome new habit of denying himself the beautiful things he wants.

Alfred half-stumbles into the bathroom and cleans himself up. When he returns to the bedroom, his phone has lit up with a new email notification. Seeing which email it was sent to, he grins and opens it.

_Alfred,_

_This is Matt Williams, your unfortunate doppelgänger. Against all my better judgement, I’ve decided to take you up on your offer._

_Is there a place/time you want to meet? Or will you just drop in on me randomly? I’d prefer the former. I’m free in the afternoons next week._

_I’d say thanks, but I know I’m going to regret this._

Alfred chuckles to himself as he reads the email before looking at the time. He flops into bed, feeling sufficiently sated, distracted, and blank for now, and also pleased at Matt’s decision. Sleep begins to pull on him and he smiles; he can reply to Matt in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments keep the engine of this fic running!


	4. Sweeter on the Inside - The Christmas Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the warm spirit of the season, Inspector Kirkland and the Thief of Spades exchange handmade Christmas gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This IS canon to the rest of the fic :D

Matt reclines on the couch in his on-campus apartment, firing off a few quick text messages, only half-expecting an answer. With the school term over for winter holiday, he has spent most evenings lounging around, reading or watching TV, hoping for an answer.

The enigmatic new addition to his life, Alfred the art and/or jewel thief (of course he hasn’t said what kind of thief he is, but Matt can make an educated guess from Alfred’s generally self-satisfied and pretentious demeanor. A bank robber wouldn’t be nearly so relaxed and smug.), has been kind enough at least to keep Matt updated. He texts Matt a “no need for your services” on Sundays and Wednesdays so that the biology fellow doesn’t feel on edge. Up his own ass or not, Alfred is thoughtful as well.

He checks his phone. It’s Thursday and there’s no answer from the person he actually wants to hear from.

A loud knock disrupts his moping. He presses pause on a re-run of an old series of Bake Off and pads warily toward the door. He almost never has visitors, certainly none unannounced.

Matt opens the door and no one is there. He looks around and sees nothing unusual, that is, until he glances down. He smiles and shakes his head.

Sitting on his doormat is a bottle of scotch, a very expensive bottle of scotch, he notes as he runs his fingers over the decorative glass. There is a note attached.

_Term’s over. Drink and be merry! -A_

Matt briefly wonders if it’s stolen, but Alfred would never be stupid enough to do something like that. He closes the door just as his phone goes off. Setting the bottle on his kitchen counter, he pulls his phone from his pocket and smiles.

Maybe Christmas break won’t be as boring as he’d thought.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Friday morning is relatively slow at New Scotland Yard for Arthur and he takes the time to indulge in his favorite snack: freshly-cut pineapple chunks from a plastic container he’d stashed in the break room refrigerator. He smiles to himself at his desk, savoring each sweet, juicy bite, forgetting that anything else even exists. Pineapples are his favorite fruit by far, perhaps even his favorite food. He relishes the sugary tropical flavor, the fibrous texture, and the slight burn on his tongue they leave behind.

The tingling reminds him a bit of kissing Alfred, though he doesn’t lose himself in the memory so much that he can’t smartly whack Gilbert’s hand away with the fork when he saunters over and tries to sneak a piece of yellow fruit. “Oi. Hands off the gold, Bielschmidt,” he barks.

“Christ,” Gilbert says, nursing his hand. “You were a pirate in another life or something.”

“That’s me, Captain Kirkland the Pineapple Pirate,” Arthur intones dryly. “They used to be worth their weight in gold, you know. Now what have we got? And why are you smiling like that today? It’s unnerving.”

Gilbert tries in vain to school his expression.

Arthur knows there’s more incoming irritation from the way Gilbert has been trying to hide his maniacal grin all morning. It’s only gotten worse since the captain handed Gilbert their case. It’s only days before Christmas and Arthur can only hope it’s nothing ridiculous.

Gilbert refuses to say anything until they reach the crime scene and Arthur humors him in the spirit of the holidays.

“It’s kind of brilliant, actually,” the silver-haired detective says, rocking back and forth on his heels as the grocer displays the scene for them.

“Excuse me,” the grocer says. “It’s not brilliant to me! It’s my merchandise gone and there’s not much chance of me getting it back is there? Even if you lot actually find it, you’ll have to hold it as evidence or something until it’s rotted.”

Arthur, as usual, must take the more professional tack. “Sir. What sort of produce did you have displayed here?”

“Pineapples!” the grocer shouts at the same time Gilbert giggles it.

“Oh gods,” Arthur grumbles. It’s not ridiculous, it’s utterly absurd. Though, a large part of his mind is on the side of the grocer. It will be such a shame that they probably won’t recover the stolen fruit and an even greater shame because he’d be able to pilfer one or two from evidence, surely. No harm in it.

Putting all that aside, he steps over to the empty display and examines it. It is a wide square base with a few wooden shelf units sitting on top. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. He looks around. The shop is fairly busy, so it’s unlikely that a thief could have walked out with all the pineapples at once. But one by one? Or even just a few at a time seems strange.

“You’re certain no one simply purchased all of them?” Arthur finally asks, his back still turned to both Gilbert and the grocer.

“Aye. One minute they were there and the next I looked they were gone, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.”

“Hm,” Arthur responds pensively.

“What are you thinkin’, mate?” Gilbert asks.

“You will address me as Detective Inspector while we’re on duty, _Sergeant_ Bielschmidt,” Arthur quips, with a sly grin he knows Gilbert can hear even if he cannot see it, just as he can hear Gil rolling his eyes. “I’m thinking…” he says, but doesn’t finish the thought. He slips out of his coat and rolls up his sleeves. He lifts off the shelving units off base and then lifts up the top of the base, where, as he suspected, there is a full load of deliciously fragrant pineapples, safe and sound. “I believe that you have been pranked, sir,” he says to the grocer.

The grocery and Gilbert peer over his shoulders.

“Damn,” the grocer says. “Well, that’s… that’s good work then, Detective,” he murmurs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Hard to think someone could have done that without anyone seeing though.”

Arthur lifts and tests the lid of the display a bit more. “Looks like all someone had to do was remove those shelves and then flip this over. Some of the fruit might be a bit bruised, but I’m sure it’s still perfectly good. Either way, I believe we can call this case closed.” He puts on his coat.

“Ah… Arthur,” Gilbert begins tauntingly. “It seems you have missed something,” he says, fishing a small folded white paper out of the bin, where it had been resting atop a pineapple.

Butterflies arise in Arthur’s stomach when he sees a little black spade drawn on it. “Oh bloody hell.” He snatches the note from Gilbert.

_Good afternoon, Inspector.  
I just needed a reference. I promise  
that I only took one. You’ll be kind enough  
to cover that for me, won’t you?  
xoxo  
♠︎_

“He—oh that absolute… agh!” Arthur grouses. “He only took one. Why didn’t he just bloody pay for it then!?”

Gilbert laughs. “Because he wanted your attention, you idiot.”

Arthur glares at him.

“Sorry, _Detective Inspector_ Idiot.”

“So,” the grocer ventures bravely in the face of Arthur’s obvious irritation. “Whoever this bloke is, he said you’d pay for the one he took?”

Arthur grumbles wordlessly and shoves his hand into his pocket, fishing out a pound fifty and depositing it into the open, waiting palm of the grocer. “Here.”

Gilbert laughs heartily in his stormy wake as the exit the shop.

“Honestly, the nerve of that boy,” Arthur mutters.

“He’s not that much younger than you, is he?” Gilbert asks.

“No, but that was hardly the action a mature person.”

“Oh, come on,” Gilbert says, knocking his elbow against Arthur playfully. “It’s Christmas! He probably just wants to meet you under the mistletoe.”

Arthur can do nothing but feel his ears turn bright red and he instinctively flips up the collar of his peacoat, trying to disappear inside.

“Oh fuck, you’ve already kissed him, haven’t you?” Gilbert asks, eyes going wide. “You’ve gotten that close to him and you let him get away!? Are you mad!?”

“Belt up,” Arthur says, striding ahead of his colleague.

Gilbert jogs to catch up. “Have you shagged him?”

Arthur glares witheringly at him.

Gilbert gets the message, but grins slyly anyway. “You want to though, don’t you?”

Arthur glances over at his friend. “Yeah,” he mumbles inaudibly.

Gilbert smiles and shoves his hands in his pockets, nodding sagely. “’S good,” he replies and says nothing more.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“These are on the up and up, right?” Alfred asks as he sifts through the gems in the tray, occasionally picking one up to examine it with the loupe attached to a long leather cord around his neck.

Alfred’s UK gem supplier, Irunya, rolls her eyes. She tosses her short platinum blond bob a little in indignation. “I know what you asked for, darling. It is not too difficult to find gem quality citrine. They are, how do you say sometimes? ‘legit.’ What will you use for the top, do you think?”

Alfred pokes at a few bright yellow stones. “I thought about peridot, but I think 14 karat green gold with a few Tsavorite garnets.”

“I will go get these for you, pick out as many citrine stones as you like.” Irunya disappears into the back of her tiny shop and returns with a tray of sparkling green garnets and a quarter ounce of green gold stock. “Have you cast this thing you are making yet?”

Alfred checks his watch. “Ah… no, not yet. But I have the mold ready.” He tucks the loupe back under his shirt.

Irunya shakes her head. “You are cutting it quite close, my friend.”

Alfred grins sweetly at her. “Ain’t I always?” he asks, affecting a slight accent.

Irunya smiles back, reaches out and pinches Alfred’s cheek in a manner which suggests she is being a little less sweet. “Take what you like. Wire me the money later.”

“You’re an angel, Irunya, thank you,” Alfred replies. “You’re so good to me,” he says as he slides his chosen gems into a black velvet back and pockets the gold.

Irunya gently pats the cheek she pinched. “Heaven knows you do not deserve it. I hope that your friend likes his gift.”

Back at his flat, Alfred dons his heavy leather apron, gloves, goggles, and mask begins the dangerous process of melting down the gold, yellow for the base, green for the top. He pauses only occasionally to wipe his forearm across his brow. He pours each mold in turn and then cools them. The process goes on well into the night and if he weren’t used to being awake for long stretches at a time, his hand would be shaking by the time he goes to set each small stone in its place.

By around eleven in the morning, he is finished and collapses on a fancy, expensive chaise, while his new creation, a jewel-encrusted pineapple about three and a half centimeters tall and one centimeter wide, perches shining under the overhead light of his workbench.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Two weeks ago…

Abigail Kirkland rests her elbow on her kitchen table and leans her chin in her hand, biting back a silly grin as she watches the Thief of Spades sit across from her, going positively ham over her pot roast.

“This is so good, Mrs. Kirkland,” Alfred says around a mouthful of food.

“Chew, love. Chew.”

Alfred chews and then swallows hard. “It’s really good.”

“You don’t cook?”

Alfred looks down. “No. Not like this. I… I don’t eat anything home-cooked too often. Arthur’s so lucky.” He shoves his fork through the mashed potatoes, collecting a large lump of them.

Abigail laughs. “I wish you’d say that to him.”

Alfred looks up at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “I will.”

Abigail shifts and folds her hands in her lap. “Your mum didn’t teach you how to make anything?” she asks.

Alfred freezes, bristles, and takes a deep breath. No one has mentioned anything about his family in so long, he’d almost forgotten about their existence. “Uh. No, not really,” he says tightly.

Abigail takes the hint and nods. “I can teach you a few things, if you like. I taught all my sons a some tricks. Allistair and Dylan took to it the best, but Ian and Arthur are utterly hopeless. Arthur’s a decent baker, though. Luckily for Ian, Holly is a wonderful cook, but any lad Arthur marries is going to have to know his way around the kitchen,” she teases with a wink.

Alfred blushes. “I think Arthur’s kinda married to his job… kinda like me.”

“For now,” Abigail says, standing up and taking Alfred’s empty plate to the sink. “Do you want seconds?” She starts putting the leftovers away in the refrigerator.

Alfred pats his stomach, happy and full. “No, ma’am. I’m stuffed. Thank you.” Meals with good nutrition are few and far between, so he’s grateful that Abigail allows him to come and eat with her. He is careful so that her home doesn’t become a target of suspicion for the CIA.

Alfred loves to hear her talking about Arthur’s brothers and hearing stories of the four boys when they were younger, but particularly Arthur, of course. Like the time Arthur got his arm broken chasing after a bully who was picking on younger kids; the bully had caught him and twisted his arm so hard it broke, not surprising given that the bully was fourteen and Arthur was ten, but Arthur still got in the last punch. It seems Arthur was always sticking up for the little kids and trying to make them feel included. Stories like that warm Alfred’s soul.

“Alright, dear.” In true mum-fashion, Abigail walks over carrying a plate. “Don’t tell Artie I let you have this,” she giggles, setting a dish of pineapple chunks in front of Alfred. “They’re his treasure. He’d have my head if he knew.”

“Pineapples?” Alfred asks incredulously and then pops a chunk in his mouth.

“Oh, he loves them. Inscrutable and spiky on the outside, sweet on the inside. Just like him.”

Alfred laughs. “Yeah. Definitely.” Definitely sweet on the inside of the memory of that kiss is still accurate and not completely hyperbolized by Alfred’s active imagination. “He really calls them his treasure?”

Abigail laughs. “Yes. He does. Or his gold. And gods forbid he catch you sneaking a piece. But this will be our secret.”

Alfred smiles as he spears a piece of pineapple and savors the taste on his tongue.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Arthur is fairly certain his eye is developing a twitch as he stands in the boutique gallery, staring at a blank space where a painting once hung. Around him, a team of CIA crime scene specialists are buzzing about.

“An oil painting from 1792 heavily featuring a pineapple motif,” Gabriel says as he comes and stands next to Arthur, handing him a note. It has already been unfolded, but the little black spade on the back of it is obvious. “So,” Gabriel says conversationally.

“Don’t bloody look at me,” Arthur snaps. The pineapples at the shop could have been a coincidence in isolation, but this is unmistakable. The Thief of Spades knows his one true weakness.

_Inspector,  
You’re so sweet on the inside.  
xoxo  
♠︎_

“Are you?” Alice asks, suddenly appearing on Arthur’s side.

Arthur jolts a bit. “What?”

“Are you sweet on the inside?” Gabriel prompts suggestively.

Arthur immediately crumples the note and glowers at the CIA agent. “You’re nearly as bad as the frog,” he says.

Alice coughs pointedly. “That aside, if you’re having a sexual relationship with Jones, we need to know.”

Face contorting with distaste for Alice’s wording, Arthur forces himself to control his own reactions. “Well I’m not.”

“Good,” Alice replies.

“Do you want to?” Gabriel asks, more curious than inquisitive. “If you have feelings for him, that could be even worse. He could find out and manipulate them.”

_As if that git hasn’t already done so, as if he isn’t doing so now_, Arthur thinks as he shoves the note in his pocket. “No,” he says firmly. “I don’t have feelings for him. Whatever his fascination is with me, I just want to catch him and end all this.” It’s a lie. It’s such a lie, but it’s such an easy lie—not because he wishes it weren’t a lie, but because lying to protect Alfred is coming more and more naturally. That’s a little bit frightening all by itself.

Arthur stalks over to the wall where the painting had been and knocks against the wall. It seems solid enough and gives no indication of having been messed with, but he taps his foot against wooden floor. A hollow board. He kneels down on one knee and pulls the board up easily, it has clearly been dislodged recently.

Reaching in, he pulls out a cardboard tube and opens it to confirm the painting is inside. The forensics team all stop and look at him. He stomps over to Alice and thrusts the painting at her. He smirks. “May I be excused now, headmistress?”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Alfred knocks on the Kirklands’ door in the late afternoon on December 23rd. It opens to reveal a plump, radiant Abigail smiling broadly.

“Alfred, dear. I was hoping you’d stop by today,” she says as she ushers him in.

He looks around; her house is fully decorated now: a smallish faux Christmas tree adorned with lights and ornaments, pictures of her sons in Christmas clothes (a particularly adorable one of Arthur at probably fourteen with green hair, a scowl, black Docs, and a festive reindeer sweater), and other knick-knacks. Her house is so much nicer than his glamorous apartment, he thinks for the thousandth time.

She hands him a large Christmas-themed square tin and a poorly wrapped lump. “These are for you from Arthur. He told me give them to you when you stopped by and he told me to tell you they’re from me. He’s shy.”

Alfred’s heart thumps giddily as he opens the tin, revealing about two dozen freshly baked scones. “D-did, um, did he make these?”

“Yes. He made that too,” Abigail says gesturing to the lump Alfred had tucked under his arm in order to open the tin.

Alfred tears open the paper to reveal an extremely soft, rib-knit scarf with red and navy stripes. He holds it up and buries his nose in it. It smells like Arthur. “Wow… wow. This is…”

“Yes, he never took to cooking, but he’s quite good with a pair of needles. He never progressed much beyond scarves, but his stitches are perfect.”

“This is beautiful… he… I didn’t expect… he didn’t have to get me anything.”

Abigail’s heart swells and she bites her lip to stop herself from blurting out Arthur’s secret. “He wanted to,” is what she settles on. “I think he figured you were going to get something for him and he didn’t want to be outdone.”

Alfred laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, I have a small thing planned. I got something for you too.”

“Oh no, love. I don’t need anything.”

Alfred shakes his head and trembles slightly as he pulls out a black velvet box. He hands it to Abigail. “I didn’t wrap it, I’m sorry.”

Abigail opens the box, revealing the solo engagement ring Alfred had made so long ago, now set with a deep blue sapphire and modified just enough to resemble a more classic fashion ring. “Oh dear…” she breathes. “Alfred, this is beautiful.”

Alfred blushes, eyes tearing up just a bit. “It’s not stolen!” he confesses hastily. “I, uh, I made that. A long time ago. It was… well, I set the sapphire just recently, but… it’s too nice to just sit in my workbench anymore, so I want you to have it.”

“You made this?” Abigail gasps.

“Uh, yeah.”

“You’re a jeweler.”

“Sort of.”

Abigail slips the ring onto her right ring finger. “It’s lovely, dear. You’re so talented.” She wraps her arms around Alfred’s middle and squeezes him tightly. “Thank you. I’ve never gotten jewelry so nice.” When she lets go, her eyes are misty as well. She rubs at them quickly and looks once more at the right. “I did have something I wanted to give you too, but… oh Lord, it’s not nearly so fine as this. Stay right here,” she insists as she darts into the kitchen.

“Mrs. Kirkland, whatever it is, I—”

She returns with what looks like a small photo album tied up with a ribbon. “I made this for you, after the last time you were here,” she says, thrusting the book at him.

Alfred opens it and flips through the pages: recipes. Pages and pages of handwritten recipe cards in near-perfect script tucked nearly into the photo sleeves on each page. Tears begin to stream down Alfred’s cheeks. No one from his old life, certainly no one from his life as a thief, has ever given him something like this.

Abigail watches as Alfred flips through the pages. “The last one is my special pineapple upside down cake, it’s Arthur’s fav—oh no. Oh dear, don’t cry,” she exclaims, reaching up to wipe his face.

Alfred throws his arms around her shoulders and tries to keep his sobbing face out of her beautiful auburn hair. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you. I’ve never gotten _anything_ this nice.”

“You’re welcome, love.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

The night of Christmas Eve, Arthur and Gilbert stumble merrily along after a few hours at the pub with some of their other friends, singing seasonally-inappropriate songs as loudly as possible until they’ve both sobered enough to walk home separately.

“You alright then?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Gilbert replies with the sly grin he’s had for days now.

“Isn’t your flat in the other direction?” Arthur points to the way Gilbert normally goes.

“Sure is.”

“I take it you’re not going home then?”

The silver-haired man actually blushes. “Nah, I’ve got… I’ve got somewhere to be. Happy Christmas, Arthur.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow, but doesn’t press. For all his obnoxiousness, Arthur has learned that Gilbert is actually a very private person. “Alright then. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That rules out pretty much everything except slouching on the sofa watching Doctor Who re-runs though.”

“Ha,” Arthur drones sarcastically. “Whatever, have a happy Christmas, Gil.” With that, he turns, not knowing if he’s supposed to see which direction Gilbert heads off in. The walk home is brisk, but refreshing. It clears his head. The night sky is clear for a change when he looks up at it and even a few stars are visible. Gilbert has someone to spend Christmas with and Arthur finds himself envious. The holiday has always been about family and love to him. He’d spent last Christmas with his ex-boyfriend and it had been hell.

He wishes suddenly that he could have seen Alfred’s face when he opened his gifts. He hasn’t wanted to ask his mum because he knows she wants him to ask and he feels he’ll seem like a silly schoolgirl with a crush if he gives in. It’s completely irrational which is out of character for him.

It’s late and the house is dark except for the lights on the tree, so he turns the key in the lock and heads quietly upstairs. He throws off his clothes without turning on his light and pitches himself into bed.

“Ah!” a voice shouts from the spot next to him on the mattress. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

“What the fuck!?” Arthur yells and jumps up to turn on the light. He’s greeted with Alfred, sitting on one side of his bed, fully clothed and wearing the damn scarf of course. Meanwhile, Arthur is acutely aware of the fact that he is now only wearing an undershirt and boxers. “What are you doing here!?”

Alfred beams. “I wanted to give you your present.”

“Oh god,” Arthur groans. “Please, if you stole something, please just—”

Alfred shakes his head as he hands Arthur a small box. “I didn’t steal it. I wouldn’t give you something that I couldn’t truly say is yours by giving it to you. That’d be really stupid. And mean.”

Arthur opens the box, losing his breath as he gazes upon the object. Sparkling inside the box is a solid gold pineapple miniature, stylized but still three-dimensional, complete with what look like citrine stones and some kind of green stone Arthur doesn’t immediately recognize. He removes it carefully from the box to get a closer look. “Bloody hell, Alfred, it’s… it’s beautiful.” He turns it over and around, noting the initials “AFJ” stamped on the bottom, a maker’s mark clearly.

“I thought you’d like it,” Alfred asserts proudly.

“Where did you get it?” Arthur asks. “I mean. If you say you didn’t steal it, I believe you, but where do you find something like this?”

Alfred’s heart soars as he watches Arthur so enraptured with the little figure. He uses the detective’s distraction to stand so close that Arthur’s nose touches his when he raises his head.

“It found me,” Alfred says off-handedly, “It was meant to be yours. It’s your treasure.” he adds cheekily.

“Yes, well, Mum shouldn’t have told you about that.” Arthur stares at it a moment longer, a smile playing on his lips. It’s unlike anything he has ever seen before, not in any art gallery or jewelry shop or museum. “But… thank you, Alfred. This is—it’s… It certainly puts that scarf to shame,” he confesses, completely forgetting that he’d told his mother to lie.

“It doesn’t,” Alfred replies sincerely, his whole being swelling with some insane kind of happiness and he had promised himself he wouldn’t kiss Arthur, but he can’t seem to help it so he does. “Merry Christmas, Inspector.”

Arthur reels as Alfred’s lips crash against his and he’s still reeling until it’s obvious that Alfred is gone; another seamless escape from the Thief of Spades. “Happy Christmas, Alfred.”


	5. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur asks Francis for a cigarette and some other stuff. Alfred is not Matt’s sugar daddy... or his hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short, with my apologies. Technically takes place before previous chapter (Christmas Special).

“Francis.”

Everyone in the room turns to look up from their respective work. Arthur had been trying to work, but he can’t concentrate in the slightest.

“Oui, Inspector?” Francis replies with, in Arthur’s mind, an absolutely punchable grin.

“I need a smoke,” Arthur says flatly.

“I did not know you are a smoker, mon ami.” Even so, the Frenchman slips out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, holding it out for Arthur.

The detective takes one and holds it between his lips. “I’ll need a light,” he says pointedly, moving toward the door.

Francis looks at him with increased interest and stands up, glancing briefly at Gabriel and Alice. Alice nods and so Francis follows Arthur out the door and a few meters away from the building. He leans back against a stone building wall next to Arthur and lights the cigarette.

Arthur takes a long drag, eyes closing as the forgotten but familiar feel and taste calm his nerves. He hasn’t smoked since before joining the police service.

“It has been awhile, I take it?” Francis guesses accurately, lighting one for himself.

“I can have just one,” Arthur retorts staunchly. He takes another drag and looks over at Francis, who is staring at him as though he’s grown another head. “You’re a thief, correct?”

“Ah ah ah. Former thief.”

“Right,” Arthur says skeptically. “Regardless, it’s not a very large community, is it? You all know each other’s business. Tell me what you know about Alfred’s romantic relationships.”

Rather than tease or ask why Arthur wants to know, Francis simply smiles knowingly. “You have taken longer than I thought you would to ask, but the answer will be disappointing to you, I’m sure. He is isolating himself always. He used to have something, I think, with Braginski, but as far as I know, they are only friends now. Any others have been… random, but even of those there have not seemed to be many.”

“Braginski?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“Oui, but it was very secret. Russian gangsters do not look kindly on homosexual relationships, as you may know. Ivan broke it off. If it was ever very upsetting to dear little Alfred, I would be the last person to know.”

“What about…?” Arthur almost doesn’t even ask, it seems so absurd, “What about Honda?”

Francis takes a quick puff. “Honda is Alfred’s guardian angel, that is all of it. I think that man is made of ice. If anyone were to warm his bed, he might melt into nothing.”

Arthur nods.

“Do you think _le petit cher_ is in love with you?” Francis asks plainly. “Do you think that is why he is fixated on you?”

The question catches Arthur somewhat off guard, but at least Francis hasn’t guessed at Arthur’s feelings. “I… I suppose that’s why I’m asking. It seems… like a logical possibility.”

“If only we are operating in the world of logic, mon ami. In my opinion, Alfred is not capable of human connection. Everyone is a piece to be moved in his eyes. We are all either something he wants or something in his way. He is like a child this way—not cruel, but not caring either. Right now, you are his favorite toy… and you play into this more than you realize, I think.”

Arthur hackles go up almost instantly, but he inhales on his cigarette to keep himself cool. Francis might have a point, but then how could he explain Alfred going after the man who roofied Arthur and not even taking credit for it? How could he explain Alfred’s note to him at the hotel, where he’d clearly already decided to let Arthur go if he wanted? How, of all things, could he explain Alfred’s kindness to his mum? But he had asked for Francis’ opinion and he got it.

Francis throws his cigarette butt on the ground and snuffs it out with his foot. “If you stop reacting to him, if you stop being good at catching him, he will likely lose interest and then, perhaps, you can get back to your own life, hmm?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “That is one way of looking at it.”

“We must probably get back now,” Francis says, standing straight and taking a step back toward the building in which the office is located. “I am technically not supposed to be out of custody of Costa or Clark.”

“Ah.” Arthur nods and stubs out his own cigarette, only half gone, against the ground as well. He feels no inclination to have another now, the taste on his lips is terrible and he can’t help but think Alfred wouldn’t like it either. “Just one more question,” Arthur says as he follows Francis.

“Oui?”

“Do you know anything about Alfred’s past?”

Francis laughs. “If I knew, I would have told Elizaveta long ago. Or Agent Costa. But there is nothing to tell. Alfred has no past. He has no family. He is a ghost, Inspector. That is the entire point. That is the benefit of this life... or it is the price we pay. It is different for all of us.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

To any random person in the restaurant, Alfred thinks, they must look like twin brothers chatting over curry, rather than two perfect strangers. No one will bother them in this little corner though.

“So how does this work?” Matt asks, putting his fork down delicately.

Alfred hands Matt his phone. “Your loan accounts are managed online, right? Just log in on here, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Matt takes a deep breath, pulls up the site for his loan servicer, and enters his information. He blinks, almost unseeing, at the total amount due. Exhaling, he hands the phone back to Alfred.

Alfred grins and with a few taps of his thumb, sends a payment through for the full amount from an untraceable bank account somewhere in the Caribbean. He waits a few moments for it to register and then hands the phone back to Matt. “There. All gone,” he says with a beaming smile.

The relief that floods over the Canadian student is visible and tangible. “Th-thank you… I think. I can’t—I can’t believe it’s all just… gone. I sorta thought… I thought perhaps it might never be gone.” He looks up at Alfred with wonder.

That look reminds Alfred of the faces of people he used to help when he thought he could be Robin Hood. He’d forgotten how good it could feel to see that look. He stiffens slightly; he hasn’t forgotten how easily that look can lead to attachment. “Listen. Matt. I’m not your sugar daddy. I’m not a benefactor, okay? You’re indebted to me now, just so we’re clear. This is an even exchange. Your assistance is worth this much to me when I factor in compensation for the risk you’re taking on.”

Matt raises his eyebrow and laughs. “Sugar daddy?”

Alfred narrows his gaze and leans forward. “This isn’t a game. What do you think will happen if you stupidly decide you don’t want to help me?”

Matt’s eyes widen slightly. “You said you’re not… violent,” he says slowly.

“There are more effective ways to mess up someone’s life than simply ending it,” Alfred replies quietly. “I mean it. I’m glad to help you but I’m not… I’m not a hero, okay?”

Matt stares back at what might as well be his own face, if his own face were shrouded in haze and enigma that is. Yet for a moment, the curtain draws back and he catches not only Alfred’s meaning, but the underlying insecurity. Though the thief is congenial and laid-back, Matt does understand, at least intellectually, that Alfred lives in a dangerous world. He doesn’t want Matt getting attached. “…Okay,” he says. “I got it and I’m not going to try and re-neg on helping you. Still. Thank you.”

Alfred takes a bite of food to hide his smile. “You’re welcome.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“Damn it!” Alfred groans in frustration. He throws down his pencil and glares at the pages on the desk in front of him.

Bribing one of the mid-level members of Gem-A had seemed like an easy way to get around having to infiltrate Marcus Taylor’s house. Alfred has nothing against Taylor and Taylor has nothing he wants, but his house had previously been owned by the most recent former president of Gem-A before he died a few years ago.

The association is definitely not stupid enough to house the Trickster’s Heart on their main campus. Such things are kept secret by a series of ledgers and codes.

Alfred had thought if he had one of the ledgers, he could break the code on his own, but nothing he has done so far has worked. If his information is accurate, there is a key to the code inside the library in the manor which now belongs to Taylor—a man as obsessed with privacy as most of his multi-millionaire peers tend to be.

He’s hiding something the same as all of the rest of them are and Alfred had hoped to avoid seeing whatever it is for himself, but it appears that the chance must be taken.

Alfred plants his forehead against the desk with a decent thunk. “Damn it,” he laments. Having to break into Taylor’s house will be no easy feat and since his alarm systems are set to alert a private security force, there won’t even be the possibility of seeing Inspector Kirkland.

It will be worth it, though, when he has _Le coeur du filou_ finally in his hands.


	6. Priceless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred told Matt he’s not a hero. His actions would indicate otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve unofficially dubbed this chapter “The One in Which Everyone Realizes Alfred Isn’t the Shallow, Selfish Thot He Appears to Be at First”
> 
> *Side note: I have not forgotten that Gilbert is already in this story, don't worry! ;)
> 
> **Drama. Crime. Nothing graphic.

“Wow,” Matt breathes as his hands traverse the fabric of the tuxedo Alfred is holding up in front of him on a hanger. “This is… nicer than anything in my closet, that’s for sure.” It startles him not for the first time that though they have nearly identical faces, Alfred’s life is vastly different from Matt’s humble existence as a post-grad student. It would take Matt a few years to save up money to buy something like this, to buy any of the absurdly expensive things that seem to wind up in Alfred’s hands. He looks at Alfred and wonders if those expensive things round out the thief’s life the same way Matt’s friends and classes and boyfriend round out his.

Somehow, he doubts it.

Alfred grins cheekily at Matt’s awe. “Well you’re pretending to be me and I’ve got kind of a reputation for making a statement. Of course, if the monkey suit isn’t to your taste, there’s an amazing burgundy Versace gown you can wear instead.”

Matt looks up at him, eyebrow raised. “Is that something people would be surprised to see you in?”

Alfred’s eyes twinkle mischievously in that way they often do. “Not at all.”

Matt smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll stick with the tux if that’s okay by you.”

“It’s fine with me. I’d like to wear that dress myself and I could never been seen in it twice,” Alfred preens.

Matt reconsiders his previous conclusion: perhaps Alfred really is that shallow. Perhaps the fancy, expensive things are all he needs to make himself happy. Perhaps nothing matters that much to him. He rolls his eyes and tries to keep his nervousness at bay. “So you mentioned tomorrow night in your text, but what’s my assignment exactly?”

Alfred drapes the garment bag over the back of Matt’s couch and pulls an embossed invitation from his backpack. “You’ll be attending an art show at a small gallery owned by a friend of a friend. You’ll be perfectly safe there. The gallery’s cameras and facial recognition software should be enough to alibi me if necessary. You might run into people who know me, just some high society types, but they’re all harmless. Just nod and smile, they like to hear themselves talk.”

“And you’re sure there won’t be any actual law enforcement showing up?”

“Positive… unless _you’re_ planning on doing something.”

“Ha. Funny, but no way.” Matt snaps, probably a little too harshly, but he can’t help but feel that everything really is just a joke to Alfred.

“Listen, Matt,” he says seriously, “I’m not ever going to ask you to do anything dangerous. I always plan for every contingency I’m able to and I would never let you walk into a situation where I thought you might get hurt. This arrangement is supposed to be as beneficial to you as it is to me, right? That makes it my job to keep you safe. All you need to do is go and enjoy yourself. It’s open bar and the term hasn’t started yet. The cameras will do the rest. I’ll keep in touch with you via text.”

Matt blinks and holds Alfred’s sharp blue gaze searchingly for a moment as his impression of the thief as a materialistic, careless airhead crumbles only to reform in the shape of someone more thoughtful and observant, more intelligent than merely lucky. Almost exactly on cue, no less. “Okay, but what about you? Will you be okay?”

The sincerity of Matt’s concern takes Alfred by surprise. He stares back at Matt for a moment. It’s a moment too long, but Alfred smiles all the same. “Of course,” he says brightly. “I always am. Oh and don’t spill anything on my tuxedo.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Gabriel paces the back of the conference room. “So Taylor continues to refuse to grant us any access to his home and since he’s not the one under suspicion, we don’t really have any grounds to compel him, but several of the more well-known pieces from his collection are being loaned to a modern art exhibit opening at a local museum and will be unveiled at the exhibit’s opening gala.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Have we even confirmed that Jones has any interest in Taylor’s collection?”

“No,” Alice replies, “but it’s all we have to work with for now.”

“Hopefully,” Gabriel continues, “Jones won’t be able to curb his flair for theatrics and we can catch him trying to steal one of Taylor’s pieces right out from under his nose at the gala.”

Ludwig frowns and folds his arms across his chest. “No, I think it is more likely he will use the opportunity to observe Taylor’s house… or even the museum. Attempting the heist in the middle of a large event is foolish even for him.”

“He tried to steal those pearls from that hotel during a charity auction,” Alice counters. “And frankly, his foolishness seems to have few limits. If any.”

Ludwig’s steely gaze flits briefly to Arthur. “I personally believe that his antics at the hotel had motives other than expensive jewelry.”

Gabriel raises his eyebrow. “Then what do you suspect his motives to have been?”

“I think he simply wanted to see our good Inspector, here,” Ludwig replies neutrally, gesturing at Arthur.

“Oui, I agree,” Francis chimes in. “Also, I am skeptical like Arthur that Alfred has any interest in Taylor’s art collection. He is not having any appreciation for modern art, unless it is jewels.”

“Then what would he want with Taylor?” Alice asks.

“It’s not Taylor,” Arthur interjects, completely and decidedly ignoring Ludwig and Francis’ comments. “It’s the house.”

“How do you know?” Gabriel asks.

Arthur sighs as his brow furrows. He’s been reluctant to reveal what he knows since he discovered it. He has no idea what Alfred might be planning, but he had only promised Kiku that he would do what he could to stop Alfred from getting captured, not that he would deliberately obfuscate an investigation. His heart sends pangs of guilt to needle his brain, but he can’t let his feelings for Alfred keep him from doing his job. The Thief of Spades is still a criminal, after all. “The house belonged for the most recent former President of Gem-A.”

“So?” Gabriel asks. “Gem-A is an educational organization, like the GIA, right?”

Arthur’s words seem to strike a cord with Alice. She even seems impressed. “Are you sure about that, Inspector?”

“Yes,” Arthur confirms. “It wasn’t his primary residence, but he owned it. He died a few years ago and Taylor purchased the house from his estate.”

Alice turns to Gabriel. “You see, no one’s ever been able to actually prove anything, but there have always been rumors that Gem-A is more than a mere educational organization, rumors that they have a much larger part in how the international gem market operates. It honestly would not surprise me if there were similar whispers about the GIA.”

“Why have I not heard of this?” Gabriel asks.

“I have never come across this information either, Agent Clark,” Ludwig adds.

“It’s only rumor,” Arthur says. “There is no history of any law enforcement organization finding evidence to confirm any of it. But Jones has never been interested in modern art, so I started looking into the house, rather than Taylor. I read through the records of the former president’s estate and the documents from the sale of the manor. As far as they both read, nothing of the president’s belongings remain in the house.”

“Then what’s the point?” Gabriel asks.

“Not everything occurs ‘on the books,’ Agent Costa,” Francis replies, catching Arthur’s drift. “Surely, as a spy, you know that. If little Alfred thinks there is something of value for him there, he may deem it worth the risk. The inspector’s theory is far more likely than the idea that the infamously classical Thief of Spades is suddenly interested in a few abstract sculptures.”

Gabriel frowns. “So what do we do? Taylor still isn’t going to let us into his house and even if he did, we have no idea what we’d be looking for.”

Alice sighs. “We keep an eye on Jones and… we wait.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

The Thief of Spades grits his teeth silently as he loses his hold on the vine-covered red brick side of Taylor’s manor. There is a blind spot in the outside security cameras here, it’s a bit of a red flag, since Alfred knows there has to be a reason for it and he really doesn’t want to have to find out what it is.

With a man like Marcus Taylor, it’s probably not good.

Alfred finds a better grip and continues climbing toward a forgotten entrance to the attic, all the while distracting himself from the cold night air and the slight burn in his muscles by sincerely hoping that Matt is having a good time. He had briefly thought of sending Matt to the same gala he knows Taylor is attending right this moment, but it would have been too risky. It’s better for Matt if Alfred keeps him far away from any actual job he’s pulling and the post-grad student will have way more fun in the crowd at the gallery show rather than the museum gala.

Even though the last attempt went rather poorly, Alfred briefly laments that this heist couldn’t have involved dancing with Arthur again. Arthur hasn’t ever seen him in a tux.

Alfred perches in front of the attic window and waits. At the right moment, he clips a small jamming device next to the nearest wireless security signal, which disables the motion detectors. Alfred had found during his research and observation of the manor that Taylor has no cameras installed inside—another red flag.

The house is only armed with motion detectors which are controlled room by room and set to alert only Taylor’s contracted security firm and not the Metro police.

Alfred’s stomach tightens as he slips into the attic and down through the hallways. The whole manor is pitch dark and necessitates a small flashlight. It is eerily quiet, but Alfred has observed the staff enough to know they all leave at night.

He’s still on a short time limit, though. Alfred has seen this system from this company before and the motion sensors perform sweeps every twenty minutes, even if there has been nothing to detect, and send a report to the security monitors. With the device, a previous gift from Kiku, disabling them, the security company is bound to notice the interruption if no report is received.

The manor being as large as it is and Alfred having not seen any current blueprints of the place, he uses up eight minutes just to get to the library.

Fortunately, Taylor has barely touched the library since he bought the estate and the book Alfred needs is precisely where his information had said it would be.

It’s a small, thin, leather-bound journal with yellowed pages. Alfred flips through the book, smiling to himself around the miniature flashlight held in his mouth as he skims the excellent penmanship. He can already see how these codes will fit into ones he hasn’t yet been able to decipher.

The thrill of victory surges up through his gloved fingertips. He’s one step closer to the Trickster’s Heart gem.

Alfred checks his watch. He has seven minutes left, but at least he knows the way back and won’t have to search.

He heads out of the library, only for his ears to perk at a sudden noise.

Damn it.

The house should be empty, so why—?

The noise happens again, louder. It’s someone crying.

“Damn it!” Alfred curses out loud. He shoves the journal into his pocket and heads down the hallway toward the crying sounds. He stops when they’re loudest, behind a door about thirty feet from the library. It’s locked, but not well and Alfred picks the lock with ease.

His stomach, already tense, drops straight through the floor at what he sees behind the door. What had he expected really? The _best_ he could have hoped for was a BDSM submissive or something like that.

This is definitely worse, he thinks to himself as he surveys the room in which about a dozen women are huddled together at the far end of the room, away from him. Tattered and worn out mattresses are splayed across the floor. Of course this is what Taylor is hiding, Alfred thinks bitterly.

He hadn’t wanted to know what Taylor was really up to, but there it is. A dozen pairs of crying eyes, terrified of him. He wants to cry too.

Alfred’s hands clench into fists. “Damn it,” he mutters. He’d known from the first moment that Taylor was scum. Men like him think they own everything and _everyone_. “Damn it damn it damn it. That son of a bitch.” He looks over at the young women sympathetically. He’d tell them he won’t hurt them, but they’ve probably heard that before.

Instead, he closes the door. He has four minutes left. He could, theoretically, still make it out in time, but there’s no point in attempting that. He has to help them. Their freedom is worth far more than his. And Marcus Taylor has to go down for this.

But he can’t get them out himself, nor would he have any resources to help them after. There is only one course of action he can take.

He knows where the former owner’s office had been and he can only hope Taylor is using it too. He sprints in that direction and wastes no time with any locks, just kicks the door down.

By sheer luck, the control panel for the security system is on the wall near the door.

Having dealt with this before, he hacks the system through its backdoor and hastily reprograms it to alert the Metro Police rather than the security firm and then bites his lip hard. One minute. He’ll have to trip it, of course. The police won’t receive a monitoring report. He’ll have to stay because he’ll have to take photos of the journal rather than take it with him…

…and he has to make sure the police find those women, find out what Taylor is really doing.

Time’s up. Alfred moves, tripping the alarm, and makes his way toward the front of the manor. He begins hastily photographing the journal pages with a phone he will have to wipe. The photos will go to his cloud. The journal will have to go back to the library. With luck, he can retrieve it later, but that’s the least of his concerns right now.

Damn it.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Matt is lightly flirting with an older man who seems to be a casual acquaintance of Alfred’s. He’s congenial enough and Matt figures it’s best to keep up appearances. It’s made easier by the fact that he clearly doesn’t expect anything more than pleasant conversation and maybe a dance.

“How did things work out with your friend?”

Matt gives him a confused smile. “Ah... which friend?” he asks coyly.

The man laughs. “Your friend, the detective inspector who looked rather uncomfortable in his suit and stole you away from me at the charity auction. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush so brightly.”

An inspector? Matt thinks. One that apparently Alfred has a thing for. He almost laughs, not only do he and Alfred share the same face, but it would seem they share a fondness for British policemen as well, given that Matt’s boyfriend is a detective sergeant. It would also indicate once again that Alfred’s life is more than what it seems on the surface. He chuckles slightly, wondering if Gilbert has any idea about Alfred or his “friend,” but immediately thinks it would definitely be a betrayal of Alfred’s trust to ask. “Ah, it... went well,” he says with a grin, thinking more about the last time he’d seen Gil.

“I’m glad. Would you care to dance with me again or are you waiting for him?”

At that moment, Matt’s phone vibrates in his pocket and the screen flashes with a text message from an unknown number.

_Go home. Right now. -A_

Matt shakes his head. “Ah, I’m sorry. I have to go. It was nice to see you again,” he says hastily before dashing out of the party and hailing the first cab home.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“Metro Police! Don’t move!” the officers call out as they enter Taylor’s manor.

Arthur, Gabriel, Alice, and Ludwig follow close behind them.

The first thing Arthur notices is Alfred, sitting on the grand staircase in the foyer, clad in a black cat suit, with disheveled hair, and a blank smile on his face. Arthur dashes forward to handcuff him. “Alfred Jones, you are under arrest for breaking and entering and suspicion of theft.”

Alfred goes obediently to his knees, hands behind his back. He tries to smirk up at Arthur, but can’t muster it. “So good to see you again, Inspector.”

“Alfred, what the bloody hell are you doing?” Arthur hisses close to his ear.

Alfred gives him another blithe, empty look as though he hadn’t heard the question. “I didn’t take anything,” he answers honestly. “But I found about a dozen works of art just down the hall. They’re pretty modern, I guess. Not my thing really, but I don’t think they belong to Mr. Taylor either. I’m sure you and your new CIA friends can handle it.”

Arthur jerks away slightly, confused and trying to read Alfred’s tone. It’s then he sees that Alfred’s eyes are red and slightly puffy. “What are you—?”

“You have to promise me you’ll take good care of them, Inspector. They’re priceless.”

Arthur looks back and Alice and Gabriel are now dealing with the personnel from the security company who have arrived also in response to the alarm. He looks down the hall where Alfred had indicated and hands off the thief to two police officers. “Don’t take your eyes off of him. Not for a second, is that understood?”

“Yes, Inspector Kirkland,” they answer.

Arthur motions to Ludwig and he darts down the hall with the Interpol agent right behind him, looking for anything to indicate what Alfred was talking about. Why is the thief still here? Why had he so clearly tripped the alarm and waited for the police to arrive? More importantly, why had he reprogrammed the security system to alert the police in the first place? Arthur can only think the young man is going mad. This certainly can’t have just been a plot to see him.

He finds a door with a broken knob and eases it open, revealing a cluster of scared young women.

Oh god.

Arthur instinctively covers his mouth to stem the nausea that overtakes him instantly while Ludwig swears in German and begins sending text messages to superiors. “Costa!” Arthur shouts, a bit strangled. “Clark! I think you had better come over here.”

They and several of the private security agents gather behind Arthur at the door. 

“Fucking bastard,” Alice curses viciously.

“Jesus Christ,” Gabriel mutters.

There’s a flurry from the security agents as Costa, Clark, and several Metro Police officers begin demanding to know any and all information they might have. All concerns about Alfred are dropped immediately.

Arthur doesn’t hear any of it, his brain goes numb with a kind of ringing noise and he makes his way out of the manor, but Alfred has already been taken away.

That’s why Alfred had stayed. That’s why he’d reprogrammed and triggered the alarm. Whatever he was looking for, he’d decided it was more important to save those women.

Arthur drops onto the steps leading up to the front door.

_“Take good care of them. They’re priceless._”

Alfred had put his own life on the line, put his cherished freedom at risk to do the right thing.

As sickened as he is by Taylor and the horrible crimes he has clearly committed, it’s almost a relief to know that Alfred hadn’t just gotten whatever he came for and left. Of course Alfred would do the right thing. His mum has been right about Alfred all along: he might be a thief, but he’s a good man.

Arthur hangs his head in his hands. He’s a good man with whom Arthur is only falling more and more in love. How can he not? Not only is Alfred beautiful and smart and absurdly charismatic, but for all his apparent vanity, for all his seeming frivolity and selfishness, when it comes down to the wire, he chooses the right thing. Arthur has seen it several times now.

He’s a hero.

And he’s still a criminal.

Sod it all.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Arthur races back to the Yard, ahead of Alice and Gabriel who now have their hands full coordinating emergency services and hospital beds for the the young women, briefing the agents of MI6 and the CIA who will take over Marcus Taylor’s case, and dealing with whatever the security firm did or did not know.

“Where is he?” Arthur asks the officers who he had tasked with bringing Alfred in.

“We took him through processing and tossed him in lock-up,” one of them replies.

“You took your eyes off of him?” Arthur asks.

“He’s in lock-up, where is he going to go?” the other says.

“He’s not there now, I guarantee it,” Arthur admonishes, running his hand back through his hair. He strides off in the direction of the holding cells, the two officers trailing behind him.

Sure enough, the handcuffs and ankle cuffs that had held Alfred in place are undone and in his place, sits a pad of paper and a pen.

“Hey, that’s my ticket book!” one of the officers says.

Arthur silences him with a pointed look and then pushes the cell door open, retrieving the notebook. He can’t help but chuckle as he reads the words scrawled across the first sheet.

_Inspector,  
_ _I think this round doesn’t count,  
_ _right?  
_ _Until next time,_  
_xoxo  
_ _♠︎_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!


	7. Tryst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honesty is a dangerous quality for a thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wolfish grin* this one's got sexy stuff. Happy Valentine's Day! <3

Sneaking into the hospital is probably a lot easier for Alfred than it should be. A set of scrubs, a borrowed stethoscope, a clipboard, and a purposeful stride are enough to get him through all the doors unnoticed.

He just wants to check on them. It hadn’t been too hard to find out which hospital the rescued women were taken to, particularly not after Alfred leaked the story about Taylor to the press. That bastard’s downfall must be swift and complete. The journalists basically did all the work for him.

Some of women are asleep, others are awake and listless, relieved but cautious. It’s better than terrified. Alfred isn’t the praying type, but in that moment he asks any god that will listen to watch out for them and make sure they’ll be alright and then retreats from the hospital before he starts to cry again.

Evening is falling when he reaches Matt’s apartment. He checks in the windows before he attempts to knock on the door, but stops short when he sees Matt is safe, lounging cozily on his sofa and watching TV with someone who occasionally kisses him and laughs. Interesting. Alfred hadn’t known that Matt had a significant other.

Lucky bastard, the thief thinks wryly. He wants Arthur so much and if anything about the situation were different, Alfred knows he’d have slept with the inspector already.

Somehow, though, he’s gotten in the habit of denying himself the beautiful things he wants.

That’s when Alfred decides, after the past twenty-four hours, he needs a drink.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Thief of Spades curses silently as he nurses his drink at the bar. Most of the beautiful things Alfred has wanted haven’t been people and the people who did make the list hadn’t ever been so decidedly off-limits.

Alfred sets his drink down, it’s nearly empty. He has to break this habit, it’s a matter of principle.

As if on cue, the barman places a drink in front of him and nods in the direction of the woman who sent it.

She’s gorgeous with dark eyes and equally dark, glossy hair styled in smooth waves and her confident air indicates that she is definitely not in the habit of denying herself the beautiful things _she_ wants.

Alfred lifts the drink she sent him, gesturing it toward her in thanks. He smiles coyly as she saunters up to him.

“That’s a great dress. Versace?” Her accent is very posh. “Is that even out yet?” she asks, clearly impressed by the slinky, burgundy halter-top gown adorning Alfred’s body, complete with diamond-shaped cut out on his lower stomach. She leans against the bar next to him, her sleek curls cascading over her shoulders. With her heels on she is as tall as Alfred and she’s wearing a great dress of her own, to be sure.

Her eyes rake over him ravenously and it’s clear she’s not appraising the dress anymore. Heat shivers through Alfred’s veins and he blushes. “Good eye,” he says. He coolly takes a sip of the drink she had sent his way. He swivels on the barstool to face her, a sultry glint in his blue eyes. No time like the present to start breaking habits. “If you can get it off me, it’s yours.”

She smirks and gently nudges the thin strap of fabric off Alfred’s shoulder, a provocative gesture. His stomach flutters as she purrs, “I’ll accept that challenge.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Amelia wakes up to her non-CIA-issue phone ringing. She jolts up in her chair violently, causing several papers, pens, and other phones to fling out of her way, off the desk, and onto the floor. She visually checks the intricate array of cables, wires, magnets, and other jury-rigged devices that comprise a complex signal-jamming system in her small studio apartment and then answers.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Honda,” she says, trying not to sound sleepy even though this is the first sleep she’s had in ages.

“Good evening, Agent Jones.”

“What’s up?”

“You are aware that Alfred was arrested early in the morning just outside of London, of course.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I heard about it. He escaped though.”

“Yes, the inspector let it happen?”

Amelia searches for a notebook on which she had written all the details of the situation. “I guess, but apparently, Alfred deliberately surrendered himself.”

Kiku sighs on the other end of the phone. “That boy,” he mutters. “Do you know why?”

Amelia glances through her hastily scribbled notes. “Yeah, apparently the owner of the estate he broke into had been running a human trafficking ring out of the property. It seems Alfred reprogrammed the security system to alert the police, not the security firm, and then tripped it intentionally. I don’t know exactly why he stuck around, but I’m guessing because his original business there wasn’t finished, whatever it was.”

Kiku is only surprised for a moment and then laughs softly, almost not at all. “He can’t resist playing the hero, can he?”

Amelia smiles affectionately. She’s never met Alfred Jones in person, though they have spoken many times, and he is several years younger than her, but she feels like they might have more in common than just a ubiquitous last name. Kiku is very protective of him and by extension, she often feels that way as well, as if he were a younger brother.

“For what it’s worth, from Agent Costa’s reports, it seems Mr. Kirkland assured them that Alfred hadn’t taken anything and pointed out that according to UK laws, if Taylor—that’s the owner of the house—can’t press charges, which he can’t because he’s going to prison most likely, and they can’t prove Alfred took anything, they can’t go after him.”

Kiku hums his acknowledgement. “Very good.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Honda, why are you so concerned with what the detective does?”

“I have asked him to look out for Alfred in the more direct way that Ivan or I cannot do.”

“Why him? Why not bribe Costa or the interpol agent, what’s his name…?” she trails off trying to remember.

“Arthur’s warm feelings towards Alfred made him far easier to convince and because I strongly suspect that Alfred is in love with him,” he says with a certain fondness.

“You really are a romantic, Mr. Honda,” Amelia says, finishing with a yawn. “…Can I go back to sleep now?”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Alfred wakes up a little after sunrise in the plush king sized bed of the woman who had taken him home last night. She’s still asleep next to him and he smiles looking at her. She’s still gorgeous, despite her hair being a mess now and her lipstick rather smudged. He brushes a few strands of hair back from her face and she stirs.

“You have to go, I suppose?” she mumbles sleepily without opening her eyes.

“Yeah,” he replies.

The dress is on the bedroom floor.

“You can’t leave,” she insists teasingly, “I’ve got your dress and I’ve not had a shag that good in awhile. I demand another.”

Alfred laughs. “Flattery would normally get you somewhere, but unfortunately, I have some things I need to take care of and quickly.”

“You can’t even stay for… breakfast?” she asks, grinning.

“I wish I could,” Alfred replies.

She sits up, sighing and pouting just a little for effect. “Alright. I’ll find something for you to wear.” She kisses his cheek, slides off the bed, and slips into the closet. She emerges in a clean pair of panties and a loose-fitting tank top, carrying what look to be like well-worn black yoga pants and a t-shirt. “Here, love.”

“Thanks.” Alfred stands up and steps into the soft black fabric of the pants and then pulls on the t-shirt, which fits him well and likely belonged to one of the woman’s previous male companions. He heads out into the living room, shrugging on his coat next to the front door and picking up the one high-heeled shoe he can find.

She smiles as she hands him his stray shoe and watches with sated contentment in her eyes as he tugs the shoes on and adjusts his coat. Alfred adores her for the way she doesn’t ask to see him again.

He kisses her lightly as he leaves. “Enjoy the dress,” he says with a wink. “You’ll look beautiful in it.”

He wishes he could have stayed, but it was dangerous enough going home with her already since he doesn’t know how closely the CIA might be following him, if at all. He doesn’t know if he’s still wanted by them and the most immediate solution is to go see Inspector Kirkland and get as much information as possible.

If the Thief of Spades could be honest with himself, he’d admit that part of him wants to provoke a reaction in Arthur, but honesty is a dangerous quality for a thief.

It’s encouraging at least that there doesn’t seem to be anyone following him as he heads toward Abigail’s house, but he’s careful in the route he takes all the same. He uses the spare key, rather than attempt to climb in any windows. Abigail has never told him where the key was, but she knows he knows and she hasn’t moved it.

Since it’s still early in the morning, both of the house’s usual occupants are asleep, so Alfred slips out of his shoes and coat and pads with catlike silence upstairs and into Arthur’s room. Suddenly, the curiosity he has about Arthur’s reaction prickles at the edges with contrition. Suddenly, the thought of Arthur seeing him now isn’t so amusing.

But he really does need to know.

Alfred slides onto the mattress at the foot of Arthur’s bed, on the side on which the inspector is not splayed out. He folds one leg in front of himself and the other hangs over the side of the bed. Any small shame he feels is overpowered by affection and yearning as he observes Arthur sleeping for a few moments. Inspector Kirkland wouldn’t like it if Alfred just sat there and watched him sleep, but he indulges himself for a few moments anyway.

The detective’s normally unruly hair is completely disheveled against his pillows and his sheets and duvet have been half kicked off in the night. It’s easier to see what Inspector Kirkland is always hiding under his conservatively tailored suits and his peacoat. He’s lean, but hardly lanky—just well-muscled and so solid. His chest rises and falls softly and steadily underneath a worn green t-shirt. Just watching it is enough for Alfred to feel safe and anchored and he aches to rest his head there.

Instead, he pokes Arthur’s leg until he stirs.

“Good morning, Inspector,” Alfred says with a bright grin.

Arthur opens his eyes and bolts upright in alarm only to fall back onto the pillows. “Fucking Christ.” What a way to wake up. Arthur decides he’d infinitely prefer to wake up with Alfred were lying next to him and not sitting at the end of his bed with a cheeky smirk on his face, like the cat that got the canary. “Are you completely mad, by the way? What were you thinking yesterday?” Arthur asks, staring at the ceiling, because he has to know. He has to hear the reason from Alfred.

Alfred’s brow furrows slightly. “What do you mean? I told you, I didn’t take anything.”

“You said they’re priceless,” Arthur insists.

“Yeah, and I meant it. People like Taylor, you know? They own everything. Every beautiful thing in the world, so they think they own everyone, too. It’s sick. They can’t just get away with it.”

Arthur takes a deep breath and sits up again, “And proving that is worth your own life, your freedom?” he asks, watching the thief’s face intently.

Alfred stays silent for a moment. “Life is beautiful, right? I hate seeing beauty destroyed.” he replies almost inaudibly. “You’d have done the same, wouldn’t you, Inspector?”

“Yes.” Arthur’s heart swells, his chest puffs up with pride, and his gaze softens. He almost reaches out to pull Alfred against himself until he observes the thief just a bit longer. Something seems slightly off.

No coat or shoes mean Alfred either let himself in or never had them to begin with, though the former is more likely. Perfect hair disheveled, but pushed back almost as if… as if someone had been running their fingers through it. There’s a hint of some cloying scent in the air… perfume? It must be, Arthur concludes when he notices several dusty red marks all over Alfred’s neck.

Ah.

Arthur’s lovestruck high deflates at the obvious fact that the person he loves has spent the night with someone else. He tries to tell himself it’s not a betrayal, but isn’t it? Hasn’t Alfred done everything possible to turn his life upside down so that he spends most of his day thinking about him? He sighs, trying to sound irritated instead of pained. “What are you doing here anyway?”

For as long as it took Arthur to appraise him, he’s probably come to the right conclusion, but the inspector is always so hard to read. Alfred grins in self-defense. “I came to see if I’m still in trouble and then possibly have breakfast with Abigail depending on if I’m a fugitive or not.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to decide if the ache he feels is from being so abruptly woken or from the acidic, liquefied feeling of _mine_ his brain sends trickling down the back of his throat. “You’re not. They can’t prove you took anything, so all they have is breaking and entering, which they can only prosecute if Taylor presses charges, which he cannot. But you’re certainly not having breakfast with my mum when you smell like some woman’s perfume with said woman’s lipstick smeared all over your face and her… love bites all over your neck.”

A razor’s edge sharpens Arthur’s tone and it leaves Alfred feeling like he should have checked a mirror before coming here. “Wh-what?”

In less than a flash, Arthur snatches Alfred’s wrist and pulls him forward before pushing him onto his back. He straddles the thief securely, his knees pinning the sides of Alfred’s hips, heedless of the fact that he’d worn nothing to sleep other than his t-shirt and boxers. He looms over Alfred, intending to be furious, but the sight of the Thief of Spades breathless and wide-eyed, glasses askew with parted lips beneath him—covered in another person’s marks though he is—turns the mantra of _mine mine mine_ up to deafening levels and floods his veins with arousal and jealous need. “What was your purpose in coming here, Alfred?” he asks quietly, desperately.

Alfred swallows tightly. The inspector’s current attire does not escape his notice and it never fails to thrill him when Arthur’s mask of detached professionalism slips, or disappears entirely in this case, but he is clearly angry and Alfred wishes he had just come here last night.“I—I just told you, I needed to find out if I’m in trouble,” he says in a measured tone.

“You could have called Honda or talked to whoever your contact in the CIA is. Yet you chose to strut past me on your walk of shame. Were you trying to make me jealous?”

Alfred winces at being called out. “N-”

“You should admit it if you were because it bloody well worked. It’s rather inefficient, isn’t it? You’ve spent so much time making me want you like this and then you waste all the effort by sleeping with someone else.” he asks as one hand trails up and rests firmly at the base of Alfred’s throat. “And god help me, I do want you like this.” Arthur burns with that want. He wants to scrub every place the musk-scented woman touched Alfred with his lips. He wants to inflict his own marks on Alfred’s skin, harsh and bruising until Alfred cries out. He wants to possess Alfred’s body with his and he wants to love and worship him for hours. It’s too much to contain anymore. “What am I meant to think?” he rasps.

Alfred writhes and whimpers even as he’s sure Arthur isn’t exactly meaning to squeeze his neck like he’s doing. It’s good though, so good with his fingers, strong and warm on Alfred’s skin and those green eyes boring into him, shifting color just like a gem, flawless and glinting and gorgeous. Arthur is every bit as solid as he looks and Alfred needs more. He needs friction for his increasingly hard arousal, he needs Arthur’s wide palms on his hips and Arthur’s mouth on him anywhere, and he needs Arthur inside of him, pounding him in a steady, unrelenting rhythm until they both come.

Arthur breathes and then realizes how tight his grip had become, not dangerous, but not intentional or controlled, so he relaxes his hand. He leans down and takes his fill of Alfred’s mouth, biting Alfred’s lips and forcing his tongue between them. When he pulls away, Alfred whines and the sound sends sparks straight to his cock. He gently grips Alfred’s chin with his fingers. “Look at me.”

Alfred will melt if he does, so he closes his eyes.

Arthur presses his forehead against Alfred’s. “You want me, don’t you?” He notices Alfred is trembling, afraid of something he probably can’t even name. Love would be too much for Alfred right now, but he seems to respond to desire well enough if the urgent and instinctive undulation of his marvelously lithe body is any indication. “You aren’t truly going to deny me after all this, are you?”

Alfred gasps and arches like a bow as Arthur’s hand drifts over his inner thighs and then only skims over his erection, which is ill-concealed by worn, elastic fabric. He shakes his head vehemently in answer and sobs when that hand moves to fiddle with the hem of his shirt instead.

“Alfred. Do not do this again,” Arthur commands, his lips brushing Alfred’s cheek before he nuzzles his nose in the thief’s hair. Even that smells like perfume. Like someone else’s bed. He threads his fingers through the soft, golden strands and pulls.

Alfred moans.

“Don’t do this again,” Arthur murmurs, still tugging at Alfred’s hair. “I’ll go mad if I know you’ve been with someone else. If you want sex, let me have you,” Arthur says, half warning, half pleading, tilting Alfred’s head back and exposing smooth column of his throat.

Alfred arches into Arthur’s touch, his head so hot and dizzy that his vision sparkles. “Yeah, okay. Okay. Please, please…” he begs until it’s nonsense. All of the reasons he had denied himself until now instantly evaporate. This is what he wants more than anything.

If he could be honest with himself, he’d admit that sex is definitely not the only thing he wants from Arthur, but honesty is a dangerous quality for a thief.

The faint whiffs of perfume are starting to give Arthur a headache. “Only me, Alfred. Or else our game is over, do you understand?”

Arthur’s insistent possessiveness melts Alfred’s brain and sends it oozing down his spine. “Yeah. Yes. Arthur.” As if he could even remember anyone else’s name right now.

Alfred’s wrists are slender enough that Arthur can hold them above the thief’s head with only one hand. Arthur leans down, hovering his lips just out of reach of Alfred’s, and shifts so all that holds Alfred’s hips to the bed are his own. He moans as his aching arousal presses directly against Alfred’s and he swallows Alfred’s cry, simultaneously relishing and cursing the thin fabric between them. “Hush,” he admonishes. He’d found out long ago that no part of the house is soundproof.

Alfred can’t remember ever feeling this good from feeling so helpless—Arthur has his arms completely immobilized and Alfred tries and fails over and over to capture Arthur’s lips; he tries to roll his hips, but has only slightly more success with that. He’s so dizzy with arousal that even just little more friction might make him come, but Arthur holds him fast and with apparent ease as he nuzzles and growls against Alfred’s neck.

“Arthur? Are you awake? What do you want for breakfast, love?” Abigail’s voice comes along with a gentle knock at the door.

Arthur freezes and drops his hold on Alfred’s wrists to mash his palm over Alfred’s mouth, the ice water of his mum’s voice reminds him of being a teenager again. “Yeah, I’m up. I’ll have some toast or something,” he replies.

Alfred can feel laughter bubbling up in his chest but he stays still and as quiet as possible.

“Alright, I’ll put the kettle on,” Abigail replies and then heads down the stairs.

Arthur sits up and releases Alfred slowly, eyeing him warily. “Be quiet,” he says.

Alfred laughs, a full shaking laugh, while he bites his fist to try and keep from making any noise. Something about the situation makes him feel giddy and warm and safe.

“Bloody hell, it’s not that funny,” Arthur grouses, feeling as if Alfred is laughing at him and simultaneously suffering a bit of mood whiplash from having to curb his arousal so quickly, especially with Alfred lying on his bed still half-hard. “Surely you were caught or nearly caught by your parents when you were a teenager.”

Alfred sits up as well, takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “No.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow skeptically. “Never?”

“Nah, they… uh… they were pretty chill, I guess. This is the first time. It’s kinda fun. Your mom is the best.”

Arthur stares at Alfred for a long moment, trying to decipher that answer. “Hm. Well. I trust you can get out of here without her seeing you.”

“Aw come on, I still can’t have breakfast with you guys?”

“No.”

“But my shoes and coat are downstairs.”

“That sounds like a personal problem, really,” Arthur replies tersely.

Alfred pouts, but then leans forward and kisses Arthur penitently. “I should have just come here,” he says. “It won’t happen again.” He buries his face in Arthur’s neck. “You… you’re the only one I want.”

Any of Arthur’s annoyance—at being interrupted and at Alfred having slept with someone else—dissipates. Alfred sounds so sincere and sweet. “Good. I’ll go get your coat and shoes, just wait here.” Arthur reluctantly gets up, looks down at himself and then quickly pulls on a pair of loose gym shorts. This is the first time in awhile he’s thought about getting his own place again. He kisses Alfred’s cheek and then goes downstairs.

Alfred wastes no time hopping out of the window and dashing around the front of the house. He opens the front door just as Arthur picks up his things. He winks, but says nothing, takes his coat and shoes, kisses Arthur’s cheek and slams the door as he dashes off.

“Oh bloody—!” Arthur swears.

Abigail pokes her head out of the kitchen, smiling with obviously feigned innocence. “Morning dear. Was that Alfred just now? You should have asked if he wanted breakfast. Honestly, I thought I’d raised you better.”

Arthur groans. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments give me life~ also thank you to the people who comment on each chapter! You guys are my favorite!!! ^-^


	8. Guardian Angel - Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Japanese billionaire Honda Kiku will do whatever it takes to protect the Thief of Spades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: off screen murder
> 
> this was going to just be part of the next chapter, but there's some tonal dissonance, so I wanted to put it up by itself.

"... And in other news, disgraced tech mogul Marcus Taylor was found dead in his cell earlier this afternoon of an apparent suicide. Taylor was arrested last week after an accidental activation of his home alarm system triggered an investigation by the Metro Police into Taylor's central involvement in a human trafficking organization. Taylor had indicated his willingness to cooperate with police and it was expected that he would implicate prominent executives of several well-known companies as well as many more British and American politicians. Rumors have begun to circulate that Taylors death was not, in fact, a su--"

Kiku shuts off the television and sighs in relief. "Accidental activation" was plausible enough. He has spent many hours since Taylor's arrest insuring that Alfred could not be tied to the incident in any way, including arranging for the final silencing of the awful man, lest he make accusations against the Thief of Spades out of a desire for revenge. He has lived amongst the wealthy and ultra-powerful long enough to know that even if Taylor had testified or implicated anyone, nothing would have really changed. If he had not silenced Taylor, one of those Taylor intended to implicate would have done it.

Keeping Alfred safe is more important to Kiku.

He exits his home office and heads toward his bedroom, smiling to himself. As much trouble as it was to handle the whole mess, it’s worth it to know Alfred will get out unscathed as always. Kiku has never understood how such a person ended up in the dark side of the world or why he'd apparently wanted to, but the way Alfred still glows with light, despite all he's done, is fascinating to the Japanese billionaire and he intends to do whatever it takes to make sure Alfred stays that way.

Arthur Kirkland will have his eternal gratitude, however, if he can actually manage to convince Alfred to give up the Thief of Spades. It would certainly save him a lot of time and money.

And, he can admit indulgently, he'd be very pleased to see Alfred truly happy.


	9. Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred's thirsty and hungry. Arthur's thirsty and possessive. Gabriel's thirsty and drunk. Alice is fine thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UST... UST up to your eyeballs.....
> 
> From now on, this fic will have occasional explicit content.

Alfred has been sitting at the opulent cherrywood desk in his flat for hours.

It has been a few days since he obtained the codes and he has made almost no progress on deciphering them and it’s not that he doesn’t want to; if anything he wants to get his hands on the Trickster’s Heart more than ever. There are several carvings on his bench, all are rough drafts of the ring for Arthur.

Alfred growls and throws his glasses onto the desk for the hundredth time, scrubbing his hands through his hair and then over his face.

He can’t decipher the code or even his own feelings about the ring when every word Arthur had said to him the other morning plays over and over in his head like a song on repeat.

To still feel Arthur’s hands all over him as he whispered and murmured to Alfred in that husky, desperate tone, to finally know what it feels like for Arthur to be over him, holding him down, to have been so tantalizingly close and then tossed out is maddening. Even if he had really deserved it.

_“God help me, I do want you like this.”_

It was the first time Alfred had really felt it. With Arthur’s hand at his throat and his lips at Alfred’s ear, Alfred had never felt so desired in his entire life. Remembering the way Arthur’s solid, lean body had enclosed him sends shiver up his spine.

And oh, how Arthur’s eyes had pierced his, greener than the Green Faerie Alfred knows now for sure, but so dark and intent.

_“You aren’t truly going to deny me after all this, are you?”_

“No,” Alfred breathes out lout in his empty flat. He can hardly remember a time when he wanted something other than Arthur, let alone conceive of a universe in which he would deny him anything.

_“Let me have you.”_

Yes. God yes. Arthur can have whatever he wants. Alfred squirms in his desk chair, feeling the exquisite pangs in his scalp from Arthur pulling his hair almost as if it were still happening. He knows that it was Arthur’s intention to punish him by not letting him stay and it had worked. Alfred doesn’t know if he’ll even consider anyone else ever again. Heat flashes through him at the memory of brief glimpses of Arthur’s cock straining in his boxers. Alfred bites down hard on his lip and whimpers as his body instinctively imagines Arthur inside of him. Oh, it’s certainly not the first time, but it’s never been quite so vivid like this, so intense that Alfred aches.

With a strangled cry of frustration, he stands up from his chair, which only serves to reveal just how hard he’s become and make him moan from the friction of his clothes against sensitized skin. Alfred knows he’ll never get anything done being so distracted like this.

He heads into the bathroom, throwing his clothes on the cold tile floor, hissing as fabric passes over his swollen cock.

Alfred hesitates as he turns on the shower taps. A cold shower would take care of his erection, but probably won’t satiate his desire or make it any easier to concentrate. Setting the taps to a hotter temperature, Alfred steps into the spray and fists his hand around his cock. He gasps audibly, stroking himself hard and fast.

_“That won’t satisfy you,”_ he imagines Arthur’s voice murmuring in his ear. Alfred imagines Arthur standing behind him, one hand at his throat and the other over Alfred’s own on his cock. _“Only I can do that, isn’t that right, Alfred?”_

Alfred nods at no one and grips himself harder. “Y-yeah. Oh fuck, yeah… Arthur—ah!” His eyes squeeze shut and he reaches his left hand out to brace himself against the cool marble wall. The contrast with the hot water and Arthur’s voice in his head make him dizzy and he rests his forehead against the stone as well. Alfred strokes himself harder and faster until he comes, tossing his head back and sobbing from the intensity.

When it’s over, he pants heavily as warm water streams over his body and relief washes over his mind. He’s not _satisfied_ of course, but he can think clearly again. He almost giggles as he finishes his shower, bright with the certainty of _soon_.

Pleased and reinvigorated, Alfred dresses, rolling a muted sky-blue t-shirt over his torso and threading a belt through dark grey khakis.

He returns to his desk, somehow even more motivated in his quest for the alexandrite and the perfect ring for Arthur, but the moment he lifts his pencil, his stomach grumbles. Of course. Alfred groans in irritation, knowing his kitchen is empty. But then a smile spreads across his face and he looks at the time.

Abigail surely has something made for lunch by now.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Having made sure no one followed him, Alfred bounds up the front steps of the Kirkland house and knocks on the door.

Abigail beams when she opens the door. “You don’t have knock, dear, you just come on in. Did you catch a whiff of my cooking all the way from wherever you were?”

Alfred laughs. “Am I that transparent?”

Abigail reaches up and pinches his cheek teasingly. “It’s alright, heaven knows you’re nothing but skin and bone."

Of course, it isn’t true, but Alfred makes a show of examining himself and looking offended as he follows her into the kitchen. "Here I thought I was pretty hot,” he says. “Can’t be helped though, gotta stay in shape for work and all."

Abigail eyes him up and down as she returns to her cooking. "I’ve snapped more strapping young men than you in half in my day,” she admits mischievously.

Alfred sits and rests his elbow on the table with his chin in his hand. He has no doubt she did, particularly given the sly look in her green eyes. Arthur has the same confidence: cheeky, rarely mentioned aloud, and factually accurate and it’s so hot, Alfred can’t help but be drawn to him. He smiles playfully at Abigail and his blue eyes twinkle impishly, admiringly behind his glasses. “I bet they enjoyed every minute of it.”

Abigail blushes. “Flattery won’t cook lunch any faster.” She stirs her stew in a large pot and glances back at Alfred. “Why didn’t you join us for breakfast the other morning? I was sure I heard you in Artie’s room,” she says pointedly with her green eyes glittering, to even the score.

Her revenge is successful and Alfred turns bright red. “I wasn’t presentable, Arthur said,” he says, averting his eyes.

Abigail giggles good-naturedly. “You’ve more tact than my son, I’ll give you that.”

“Why? What did he say?” Alfred asks curiously.

“He said you were covered in hickeys and smelled like ladies perfume,” Abigail answers with no trace of judgment in her voice. She ladles some of her stew into two shallow bowls, setting one before Alfred and then takes the seat next to him. She levels him with a more serious, but soft look. “I’ve said I try to stay out of his love life. He’s already so guarded, you see. But I will tell you this: Arthur is hard to convince, but once it’s done, he can be quite possessive.”

Alfred takes her meaning, can’t help but think there’s a proverbial shotgun missing from this moment, and grins sheepishly, but then swallows and nods. “Yeah, I—I gathered that.”

Abigail nods and deems the matter settled. She ruffles his hair affectionately. “Good. Now eat up. I can hear your stomach over here.”

Alfred lifts his spoon, but holds it without scooping up any stew. “A-Abigail, I just want to say… thank you. You’re always kind to me despite… everything, even my, er, job and… no one’s ever really been like that for me, so… ah, sorry. I’m rambling.”

Abigail’s mirthful gaze softens and she reaches out to place her hand on his forearm. “What happened to you, love?” It’s only an invitation, just as easily rhetorical if Alfred wants to leave it at that.

He shrugs. “Nothing I can’t let go of,” he says, quickly digging into his stew.

Abigail nods, figuring that to be the end of it and for a few minutes, they eat in silence.

Alfred then swallows a bite and sets his spoon down. “I was mostly raised by my grandfather.” He looks over at Abigail, his expression neutral. “I wasn’t exactly planned and my parents were, like, seventeen when I was born. They tried to make a go of it anyway, I guess. But then my dad cheated on my mom and she left… just… dropped me off with her dad and we never heard from her again.”

Abigail closes her hand over his. “Oh, my dear…”

He doesn’t pull away. “It’s okay. I was little and I don’t remember her at all. I barely know what she looks like. My grandpa was a good man, but I don’t know. Things were weird. We were never sure what roles we were supposed to be playing, you know? He died when I was fourteen, so I got sent to live with my dad, but he had a whole other family at that point… a wife and two kids.” Alfred takes a breath as all of the things he’s never said out loud come tumbling out. “I never fit in with them. They never tried. I guess I didn’t either. When I turned sixteen, I became emancipated and I never saw them again.”

Abigail clasps his hand tightly. “They didn’t deserve you, love. Now look, whatever happens between you and Arthur, my house will always be open to you, understood?”

A pillar of tension breaks in Alfred’s body and he nods, face relaxing into a weary smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t hurt him though, hmm?” she says as she pats his cheek gently.

Alfred grins at her and nods. “Don’t, um, don’t tell him any of that though, okay?”

Abigail looks at him searchingly. “You don’t trust him, do you?”

He sighs. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

She leaves it unsaid that Alfred is clearly very bright and a talented jeweler and could do just about anything else and then would have far fewer occupational hazards. Instead, she changes the subject. “Holly’s had her baby about oh, three weeks ago now?”

Grateful, Alfred beams. “Holly is Ian’s wife, right?”

Abigail nods. “They live in Belfast. The baby is such a little thing. They’re calling her Charlotte.” She stands up briefly to retrieve her mobile and pulls up a picture for Alfred to see. “She’s still just a blob of course,” she says mirthfully, “but she’s my newest granddaughter so I’m partial to her anyway.”

Alfred laughs and looks at the picture of a squirmy pink newborn with dark tufts of hair. “She’s cute for a blob,” he agrees. “Allistair already has two kids, right?”

“No, three. Two girls and the youngest is a boy.” She swipes to show photos of them. “Isabelle is the oldest, she’s twelve and Manon, she’s nine, and little Liam is only five. And oh, you should see how Artie dotes on Izza. He calls her Ding because she 'is a bell.' She’s his favorite… and he’s hers,” Abigail shakes her head softly, chuckling almost to herself. “Oh, here they are. This was about two years ago, of course.”

Alfred’s heart wobbles as he looks at the picture. Arthur and Isabelle are both giving the camera the two-fingered salute and with Isabelle’s chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes, it’d be hard to say they were related except for the light dusting of freckles across their noses and their brazen grins. “That’s fucking adorable,” Alfred says and then snaps his mouth shut. “I mean—”

Abigail chuckles and takes the phone back. “Never you mind. Arthur swears like a sailor. I’ve gotten over it.”

Alfred coughs. “What about Dylan? I know he’s a priest… right?”

“Yes, he’s a vicar out in the countryside in Wales. The nearest city is Cardiff. He’s never been interested in boys or girls, really and he’s happiest just how he is, studying and writing and helping out his parish.”

Alfred nods. “And… what about Arthur?” he asks carefully.

Abigail huffs fondly. “I really don’t know. You’d have to ask him. He was such a wild thing growing up that I only ever thought about just getting him through that and when he got himself sorted out, his job took up all his time and that was that. Although, I’m sure it’s lucky he doesn’t fancy girls or else I might have a few more grandchildren than I have now.”

Alfred thinks of how surprised he had been when Amelia had managed to get ahold of Inspector Kirkland’s juvenile records. To think of the straight-laced, by-the-book detective with a commanding presence and a spine like the mast of a ship as a delinquent getting kicked out of schools for vandalism and selling drugs had caused a bit of whiplash in Alfred’s brain.

But then… he himself had gone from a nondescript kid no one had ever wanted to a renowned (and, if he says so himself, very charming) international jewel thief.

“That bad, huh?” he asks of Abigail.

She glances at him a little sheepishly. “Oh, no… of course not. But he never missed an opportunity to raise hell if he could help it. And that’s still true—if the occasion calls for it.” Abigail scrolls back to the picture of baby Charlotte on her phone and then looks back at Alfred. “I was thinking though, I’d love to see Ian and Holly and meet the baby. They’ve invited me to come, so on Friday I’ll go to Belfast and be gone for five days or so. You’ll have to feed yourself, it would seem.” She winks at him.

“Fortunately, I got this really great recipe book for Christmas,” Alfred replies. “What about Arthur though?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll manage.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“Agent Clark, we have already gone through Taylor’s estate papers and everything is accounted for,” Ludwig says, exasperation bleeding into the edges of his normally level voice.

“Right, but thanks to those papers, we’ve already established that he did very little to the library and if Jones was trying to get something related to Gem-A, that’s where it would have been,” Alice retorts.

Arthur has no idea whether Marcus Taylor really killed himself or if someone helped along, but the acquisition of his estate papers has been a headache since they revealed the truth about the former owner and the library, which have caused the wheels in Alice’s head to make too many connections far too quickly. It’s hard enough to keep up with her normally and it’s only by sheer force of will that Arthur can focus on work and not slip into daydreams of the Thief of Spades’ desperate whimpering as he writhed beneath Arthur.

“Merde,” Francis sighs, his heavy accent snapping Arthur back to reality. “This is how Elizaveta lost her mind. Can we not perhaps give dear little Alfred a pass this time? He helped to expose Taylor and there is no victim to his crime, if he even committed one, non? Taylor is dead. The owner of the books in the library is dead.”

Gabriel glares witheringly at Francis. “Why so defensive of your rival, Bonnefoy? If we’re not chasing him, we have no use for you, do we? Jones is still under suspicion for other crimes and if we can find out what he took, it could be a clue to his next heist.”

While the two argue, Arthur loses himself a little in the memory of Alfred’s eyes fluttering shut and his lips parting as he gasped and promised to only be with Arthur. It’s not enough and Arthur knows it’s not enough. He’s so in love with Alfred that it’s overwhelming just think about, but his possessive side is placated for the time being.

His protective side pulls him back to the present moment once more. The truth is, Gabriel and Alice are probably right. Alfred probably did take something and, Arthur reasons, perhaps he can find out and convince Alfred not to go through with whatever he’s currently planning. In the same second that he doubts that he could ever convince Alfred of anything, his memory counters with the image of Alfred all flushed and trying to be silent as he laughed after Abigail knocked on the door. In that moment, the Thief of Spades had been nowhere to be found.

He coughs. “And how do you propose we obtain any sort of inventory on the library?” he asks. “Of course it’s important to find out what Jones is up to, but even if an account of what the library contains exists, could we ever be certain of its accuracy? Notebooks, journals, and papers rarely make it into such catalogues and if Gem-A is as secretive as we believe, it may have been intentionally left off.”

“You think we should give up the only lead we have?” Alice asks.

“I’d hardly call it a lead. We’re almost literally talking about a needle in a haystack when we’re not even certain the needle exists. It’s a fool’s errand if there ever was one. There have to be other ways of finding out what he’ll do next.”

Gabriel sighs and checks his watch. “You’re probably right, Inspector. Alright. Everyone go home and get some rest. We’ll pick this back up tomorrow, hopefully with fresh eyes.”

Arthur checks his watch as well and he gathers his things into his bag. It’s too late to make it home for dinner and he hasn’t been able to sleep much in the past few days. His dreams taunt him with all the things he could have done with Alfred if his jealousy hadn’t gotten the better of him. He could have thrown Alfred in the shower to get the perfume off of him, soaped up every inch of his body with his hands and surely the hot water would have made the loathsome marks disappear more quickly from his smooth skin. Arthur could have touched and kissed him until he was quivering and begging and barely able to stand in the porcelain tub.

With a deep breath, Arthur forces himself back to reality yet again. It wouldn’t have happened anyway. Alfred is… rather delightfully vocal and Arthur isn’t exactly anxious for his mum to catch them… again. She’d never let him hear the end of it. It was only Arthur’s agony over the fact that Alfred had spent the night with someone else that had caused her to spare him before.

It might be good to get a drink before going home.

He watches as Gabriel and Alice whisper very seriously at each other and smiles cordially when Gabriel glances his way. Maybe it wouldn’t be terrible to have some company while he drinks, maybe it wouldn’t be terrible if he can get more information about either agent. Arthur slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Hello,” he says as he stands just a little bit too close to Alice, smiling innocently.

Gabriel looks between the two of them, his face turning almost imperceptibly red.

“Would either of you like to accompany me to the pub? It’s been a long day and I think we all need to clear our heads.”

Alice steps away from him sharply and begins primly collecting her own belongings. “I think not and if you are hungover tomorrow, Inspector Kirkland,” she snaps, brandishing her pen at him, “I will make you suffer, is that clear?”

“Yes, headmistress,” Arthur replies. “Just a pint, headmistress.”

Gabriel snorts to keep from laughing outright.

Arthur eyes him mirthfully. “Agent Costa? Care to join me?”

Gabriel adjust his backpack strap on his shoulder. “Alright. What the hell? I’ve been in this country for a few months and I still haven’t found a good pub, so maybe a _local_,” he glances pointedly at Alice who rolls her eyes, “can show me where to go.”

“There’s a reason I don’t tell you where to get alcohol, Gabe,” Alice responds in a stern tone. “You know well enough by now.”

Gabriel waves her off. “I’ll be fine, I’ve got a policeman with me.” He leads Arthur out of the room before Alice can say anything else.

Arthur knows better than to ask two literal spies what that exchange meant and merely follows Gabriel out of the building, stepping ahead once they’re outside. “It’s not far from here,” he says. He leads them to a pub tucked away between a couple of side streets, waves at the familiar barman, and casually holds up two fingers at him. He slides easily onto one of the stools at the bar and gestures for Gabriel to do the same.

A few moments later, the barman sets a pair of pints in front of the two men. “Put it on your tab, Mr. Kirkland?”

“Yes, Tommy, thank you.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel says to Arthur.

Arthur takes a drink from his pint and raises his eyebrow. “First one’s on me. Anything else you want is your business. I promised the headmistress just one.”

“Fair enough. So, Inspector,” Gabriel begins.

“Am I still on the clock?” Arthur says pointedly.

Gabriel visibly relaxes, smiling suavely. “Alright. Arthur. Why did you invite me out?”

“I invited you and Agent Clark, if I recall.”

“You had to know she’d turn you down.”

“I had my suspicions. In truth, I just thought it would be good to get more acquainted with both of you. Ludwig and I worked together with Hedevary and I don’t know him well, but I know that we possess similar logic and work efficiently together. Francis… I already know Francis as much as I wish to and I’d never go drinking with him. He’s fine as long as he keeps his hands to himself.”

“You’re not a fan of his, then?”

“No. But then neither are you, am I correct?”

“I think he belongs behind bars for the things he’s done. He made his deal with Agent Hedevary and he should have gone back to prison when she was taken off this case, but he apparently convinced some of our superiors that he has enough information about the Thief of Spades case to keep the arrangement going.”

“What has he done?” Arthur asks, almost spontaneously. “Besides steal a lot of art.”

Gabriel takes a long drink from his glass. “It’s not for you to worry about, Arthur.”

“So then what is for me to worry about?”

“Catching Jones. By whatever means necessary.”

“Hedevary seemed to think the only use for me was as bait.”

Taking several swallows so that the glass is nearly empty when he puts it down, Gabriel replies, “That would still fall under ‘whatever means necessary.’” He flags down Tommy and tosses him a credit card, rattling off an order for another pint and a shot of whiskey.

Arthur nods. “I suppose that’s fair. I’m certain there’s a lot you can’t say, but seeing as all of you seem to know so much about me, what can you tell me about yourself?”

Gabriel hums quietly. “I’m the oldest child of six and the only boy, so that’s five younger sisters. My parents immigrated to the United States from Portugal shortly before I was born. I studied criminology and psychology at Yale and got recruited by the CIA shortly before I graduated. I started as an analyst and became a field operative shortly after that.”

“How much of that is actually true?”

Gabriel laughs. “Okay, I actually went to Harvard. Other than that… it’s all true enough. My parents are Portuguese immigrants and I do have a big family. I did start as an analyst, but I got rather restless.”

Tommy places Gabriel’s drinks in front of him and he instantly tosses back the whiskey.

“What about the headmistress?” Arthur asks.

“Alice and I got teamed up a few years ago for an assignment, someone invoked the cooperation required by the ‘Special Relationship.’ Neither of us were too happy about it at first, but we’ve learned to work really well together.” Gabriel says it with a note of finality. “What about you?”

Arthur takes a smaller sip of his drink to try and ignore the way Gabriel is studying him. “Haven’t you already read my file?”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.”

Arthur takes another drink from his pint, a longer one this time. “Youngest of four brothers, got kicked out of two secondary schools, once for shagging another boy and once for vandalism and drug distribution. A detective told me I was too smart for that shit and he stood up for me, helped me get my life sorted and helped me get into the academy. My last boyfriend threw me out and I live with my mum. And apparently there’s this international jewel thief that fancies me.”

Gabriel laughs. “You went from juvenile delinquent to a narc, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“So you think Jones ‘fancies’ you, huh?”

Arthur runs his finger against the rim of the pint glass. “Lord no,” he responds. “He’s just annoyed that I’ve caught him… three times now.”

“And you’re the only one who ever has.”

“Elizaveta set him up once, so she should get her share of the credit. Can’t count the last time since… he surrendered.”

“You think it’s impossible for him to be attracted to you?”

Arthur looks at Gabriel like he’s grown another head. “What?”

Gabriel doesn’t reply and he downs half of his second pint in one go. Arthur nurses his first one and observes the CIA agent. He is objectively very handsome, particularly with his bright hazel-green eyes. His dark brown hair is longish and perpetually tied back just above his neck. Nothing about him except for his accent seems American and Arthur had always assumed the cause was the training given to CIA operatives who work in Europe which removes all of the normal tells that a person is from across the pond, but if he truly is first generation, that would explain a lot of it as well.

With the way Gabriel manages to wrangle his team, Arthur has no doubt he’s the oldest child in a large family. His sense of humor is playful and witty, not at all acerbic like Arthur and Alice, and his demeanor is affable and composed. There’s something in his default expression, indulgent but perceptive and alert, that speaks of someone who is used to shouldering responsibility even if not directly asked to do so.

Gabriel takes another shot of whiskey. “You know it’s not immediately apparent at first, I will say that,” he finally says, his words hazy around the edges. He leans in very close to Arthur’s face.

“What isn’t immediately apparent at first?” Arthur asks, staying still and neutral.

“How beautiful you are,” Gabriel whispers in his ear.

Arthur jerks back. “Agent Costa, is this really—?”

Gabriel grins sloppily. “Am I still on the clock, _Arthur_?” He’s clearly an amorous drunk and at the rate he’s been drinking, he has to be well past tipsy. This must be why Alice doesn’t aid his search for places to acquire alcohol.

“And what about Agent Clark? A blind person could see how much you love her.”

The grin doesn’t fade a jot. “Isn’t it a tragedy? I do love her… so much, but she won’t have me. Should I be doomed to be alone because of it? You’re very like her in certain ways…”

Arthur’s initial, reflexive thought is that _Alfred_ would never compare him to someone else. His second reaction is, “She’s being professional. Given your job, yes… you are meant to remain free of emotional attachments, aren’t you?” He shakes his head, smiling wryly. “If you wanted to have normal relationships, you should have chosen a different line of work.” He straightens and turns away, taking another swallow from his glass. “And telling someone you’re interested in them because of how they remind you of someone else is a shite way to seduce them, isn’t it?”

Gabriel downs the second half of his second pint and slams the glass down, signaling Tommy for another. “You’re right,” he admits. “I’m—”

“Gabriel,” a stern and familiar feminine voice snaps from behind them.

Arthur turns around to face her. “Ah, Headmistress.”

Alice glares at him. “Gabriel, how much have you had? Christ, you’re such a lightweight,” she says to the empty glasses on the bar. “You said only one, Inspector.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow at her. “I said I’d only have one. I wasn’t aware I was babysitting.”

“Alice, I can manage myself,” Gabriel says, but still stands up from the bar when she directs him.

Alice steps closer to Arthur and grabs him by the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer. “Stay away from him, Inspector. If you make a mess of this, I will end you. Is that clear?”

Startled, Arthur scans her face, her eyes which are not very different from his own. Oh there’s a thin layer of her usual professionalism painted over protectiveness and concern and, maybe, the smallest bit of jealousy? Perhaps they really are quite similar. He nods. “Perfectly clear, Agent Clark.”

She observes him in return for a moment before she is satisfied that he’s serious. “Good.” With that, she grabs Gabriel by the arm and pulls him out of the pub, but Arthur does notice that he doesn’t put up much resistance.

Arthur shakes his head. Curious.

On his walk home, he wonders if Alice is perhaps in love with Gabriel as well, but won’t ever show it due to their professional relationship. He can’t say that blames her; he can relate to that sentiment very well if he’s honest.

That thought segues into thoughts of Alfred, the dashing, cheeky, beautiful… jewel thief. Alfred who can wear a bright red dress and look no less masculine, Alfred who can call as much attention to himself as he wants and still vanish without a trace, Alfred who acts cool and detached yet comes undone so easily under Arthur’s fingertips.

The house is dark and silent when Arthur enters. With no other distractions, his desire for Alfred swirls around him like a dense, oppressive fog. Their interaction from that morning had replayed in his mind the entire way home and when Arthur flicks on the light to his bedroom, he’s palpably disappointed to not find the thief there by some miraculous surprise. He scrubs his hands through his hair; every atom in his body is vibrating, insisting he go and find Alfred.

But it’s late. And he still has no idea where Alfred actually lives. It’d be a fool’s errand.

It’s maddening, though.

Arthur sighs as he peels off his clothes and steps into the bathroom. He turns the shower on as hot as he can stand it and wraps his hand around his cock almost immediately. His mind wanders toward its earlier thoughts of washing the perfume off of Alfred. As his hands stroke himself in reality, they traverse Alfred’s wet, soapy skin in his imagination.

_“Are you going to be good for me, Alfred?”_ he’d ask.

Alfred would nod and whine from the back of his throat.

It’d be so easy with the water to just press his fingers into Alfred’s body, twisting in and out, pressing until he inevitably twisted them at the right angle to make Alfred scream.

_“Tell me you’re mine, love,”_ Arthur would purr in Alfred’s ear as he mercilessly caressed that spot inside of him.

Alfred would cry out. “_Yeah, yeah. Yours. Arthur please. I’m yours-aahhhh! I’ll be good, please!”_

Oh, he had barely let Alfred get a word in edgewise before, hadn’t he? The thief had been vocal enough, if wordless. Arthur pumps his own cock, shuddering. In his fantasy, he rests his palm at the base of Alfred’s throat, deliberately this time, while he works his fingers into Alfred’s entrance. In his fantasy, which conjures Alfred’s voice so easily now, the thief cries and begs to be filled,

_“Arthur, god, need you—ah—need your cock in me, fuck me—nngg—god!”_

Arthur squeezes himself harder, vainly trying to mimic the sensation of what it would… what it will be like to bury himself to the hilt inside Alfred, to pound him against the wall of the shower, to paint him with his own marks. It’s enough to make him come, but not enough to actually satisfy him and he finishes showering and climbs into bed, his heart wistful and aching more than anything else, soothed only by the promise of _soon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >.> don't worry all that tension's gonna get resolved REAL soon. more comments means it gets resolved faster!
> 
> Thank you as always to all my regular commenters! ILU SO MUCH.


	10. Right Where You Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail is in Belfast for a few days. Arthur's hungry. Something's bound to snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual tension: resolved. Feelings: not so much. Time for this fic to really earn that Explicit rating.

Arthur sighs tiredly as he shifts the white plastic bag with his takeaway onto his left arm and rummages in his pocket for his house keys. This is the second night he’s brought home food and eating out for the next four or five days is not an appealing prospect, but he had been expressly forbidden from using any kitchen appliance that requires heat.

His mum had left yesterday morning to visit Ian and Holly and their new baby with emphatic instructions from him that she take as many pictures and videos as possible. Arthur almost wishes he could have gone with her to see his newest niece, but the mischievous grin his mum had after she kissed his cheek goodbye gave him some indication as to why she hadn’t invited him along. He is a detective, after all.

It also indicates that she has likely seen Alfred and thoughts of what they might have discussed as well as the empty house have kindled Arthur into simmering anticipation.

He pushes the front door open, surprised when the familiar smell of roasted chicken surrounds him, with familiar sounds emanating and bright light from the kitchen. Arthur shuts the door quietly, dropping the takeaway bag, his coat, and his messenger bag next to the doorway as silently as possible. He slips out of his shoes and treads carefully toward the kitchen, heart pounding in his chest.

Technically, it could be anyone.

But Arthur knows who it is.

He peeks around the corner and his suspicions are confirmed.

There, dressed in a black t-shirt and black track pants using a fork to follow lines in a recipe book, is Alfred. He has his back to Arthur and it should be illegal for anyone’s arse to look that gorgeous in such ill-fitting clothes. That’s to say nothing of the butterflies that erupt in Arthur’s stomach to see Alfred just standing in the kitchen like he belongs there.

Arthur holds his breath and pads slowly onto the kitchen floor and takes about two steps before Alfred sets down the spoon he’d been holding.

“You didn’t think you were going to actually sneak up on me, did you?” Alfred smiles, but doesn’t turn around… his tone is cheek, but perhaps a bit nervous as well. “Catch me once, shame on you. Catch me twice, shame on me.”

Arthur shakes his head and pins Alfred against the counter, quickly reaching over to turn off the stove and the oven. Using his marginal height advantage, Arthur brushes his lips against the shell of Alfred’s ear, relishing the clean scent of his shampoo as he smirks and says “Except I believe this is the fourth time. I’m beginning to think you enjoy being caught.”

Alfred tenses up. “Are you gonna turn me in?” he asks, genuinely afraid that Arthur might actually do it. What’s to stop him? Maybe their agreement was just a ploy to get Alfred to let his guard down so that Arthur could turn him over to the CIA. However unlikely it might seem, Alfred has to consider the possibility.

Arthur wraps his arms around Alfred’s waist, letting his hands slip under Alfred’s shirt, caressing smooth skin over toned muscle. Hearing the waver in Alfred’s voice, he resists the urge to make some kind of quip and simply says, “No.” He presses his lips against Alfred’s neck. “My only intention is to have my way with you until you beg me to stop.”

Alfred melts and tries to hold back a moan by biting his lip and fails utterly. “Gonna—gonna punish me yourself, is that it?” God, Arthur has barely touched him and he already feels like a dizzy mess.

Arthur plants kisses over Alfred’s shoulder and the back of his neck. “No,” he murmurs against Alfred’s skin, “I’m going to fuck you so well you can’t stand, let alone run away from me.”

Alfred nearly chokes. When he had first met Inspector Kirkland, he’d been so fascinated by the detective’s regal, commanding presence and his relentless intensity, but for a long time, he’d only seen it masked by professionalism. That mask had fallen away the other morning and Alfred was forced to face something he hadn’t considered when he’d started this game: namely that Arthur might actually end up reciprocating the fascination. Alfred stands on the edge of taking a greater leap of faith than he originally thought and for the first time since becoming the Thief of Spades, he hesitates to jump. “Aren’t you hungry or something?”

Arthur’s fingertips press into Alfred’s skin, reflexively pulling him closer. “Yes,” he growls. Despite being well aware of his feelings for Alfred, Arthur hadn’t allowed himself to _want_ him. He’d thought it to be too impractical, too dangerous really, but now with Alfred in his arms, it’s impossible to say how deeply the desire runs. He flexes his fingertips again, pleased when Alfred trembles beneath them.

Alfred takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Arthur isn’t going to make this easy on him and that’s more than fair since he hasn’t made anything easy on Arthur and, Alfred thinks as he bites his lip to keep from smiling too much even though Arthur can’t see it, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He tilts his head to the side, allowing better access to his neck. “I’m kinda thirsty, myself,” he says cheekily.

Arthur laughs. “Yes, I gathered that much.” He steps back just far enough to spin Alfred around, admiring the pink flush in his cheeks and the bright rings of blue around his dilated pupils. He needs to get Alfred out of the kitchen and into his bed immediately. Giving the thief less than a second to register the intent in his expression, Arthur darts forward, wrapping his arms around Alfred and hoisting him fully over his shoulder.

Alfred yelps as his perspective is suddenly upended, his glasses falling askew. He stays still mostly out of surprise at Arthur’s strength. “What the—!?”

Arthur smirks and with almost no strain, carries Alfred toward the stairs. He shifts Alfred’s entire body to a better position, making sure to keep a good hold on him. This is far more entertaining than leading him away in handcuffs and a light, joyful feeling bubbles in Arthur’s chest. “I am a highly trained British police inspector,” he boasts, “I could snap you in half if I chose.”

Remembering Abigail’s words to a similar effect, Alfred can’t help but chuckle, particularly when he realizes he now has a damn good view of Arthur’s ass. Steadying himself on Arthur’s side with one hand, he slowly starts to raise the other—attempting to go unnoticed—when Arthur swats him teasingly on his own posterior.

“Don’t even think about it,” Arthur chides mirthfully. Admittedly, hauling Alfred all the way up the stairs is a bit of a challenge, but Arthur manages it well enough and once in his room, he drops Alfred unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Oof,” Alfred grunts. He regains his bearings and adjusts his glasses before propping himself up on his elbows and grinning up at Arthur. “Impressive, Inspector.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow. “Is that all it takes to impress an _alleged_ international jewel thief? Strap in then, love, I’ve not even started yet.”

“God, I hope not,” Alfred breathes, almost involuntarily.

Arthur pulls his shirt off and he turns to toss it into the laundry basket, but catches sight of a small, black duffle bag near it. “What’s this?”

Alfred ducks his head sheepishly. “My stuff.” He blushes as his eyes rake over Arthur’s bare torso. He’d seen it before when he had painted it, but the context is different now. The inspector was merely a canvas then, now Arthur is himself and imminently about to be Alfred’s lover. Where Alfred hadn’t dared to look so closely before, he does now and he’ll never again doubt Arthur’s ability to throw him around: his shoulders are somewhat broad, but he’s leaner and slimmer than his every-day clothed silhouette would suggest. Even so, he’s deliciously well-muscled and solid.

“Stuff?” Arthur asks skeptically, if only to distract Alfred from his blatant ogling.

Alfred removes his glasses and sets them on the nightstand. “Well I noticed you didn’t have any, uh, protection or… lube, so I brought some and, you know… some clothes? So I don’t have to do the walk of shame again?”

Arthur doesn’t bother to ask how Alfred had known he didn’t have condoms or lubricant. He drops his shirt into the basket and opens the bag, finding exactly what Alfred had said. “I see,” he says mildly though his thoughts are anything but. His heart thumps in his chest as it occurs to him that Alfred isn’t intending to run off. He takes the condoms and lube from the bag and sets them on his nightstand next to Alfred’s glasses. Arthur drops onto the bed between Alfred’s legs and leans over him, forcing him down onto the mattress. It takes every ounce of his willpower to resist the consuming urge to declare his love out loud. Instead, he kisses Alfred deeply, working his lips open slowly and allowing Alfred to nip at him.

Alfred breathes in sharply through his nose, lets Arthur have his way with his mouth, runs his hands over Arthur’s shoulders before clinging tightly to them. He can’t help but grin just a little into the kiss before suddenly gripping Arthur’s hips with his knees and flipping them over so that the detective is the one on his back. He gazes down breathlessly at surprised green eyes and parted lips. “Turnabout’s fair play,” he teases.

Arthur smooths his palms over Alfred’s thighs, smirking as the motion causes shivers in Alfred’s spine. “I’m quite certain nothing you’ve done has been fair play,” he says fondly. “This is where you wanted to end up almost from the beginning, isn’t it?”

Keeping his knees tightly locked on Arthur’s waist, Alfred sits up and tosses his t-shirt off and onto the floor. He doesn’t answer at first. Is this where he wanted to end up? Oh, at first it had just been a battle of wits, but it’s more than that since he was imprisoned, more than that since helped free those women. Even if the boundaries aren’t clear, this is where he wants to be. “Yes,” he murmurs.

Arthur admires Alfred’s body, so slender and lithe. He’d known Alfred was lean and svelte since he’d seen him in that red cocktail dress, but it’s different to see him so flushed, to see him breathing heavily, quivering with excitement. Before Arthur can touch, however, Alfred slides down, leaning over Arthur’s legs. “Oi. What’re you doing, love?”

Alfred traces his fingers over the waist of Arthur’s pants before undoing them. “Something I’ve wanted to do for awhile now,” he whispers reverently, leaning down to plant a single kiss on Arthur’s hip. He wrestles the fabric off with relative ease, leaving Arthur in his boxers, but he makes short work of those as well. He gasps just a little when Arthur’s cock is finally exposed—already half hard and _perfect_. “Awesome,” he exhales on impulse and shakes with anticipation.

“Is it?” Arthur asks in good humor, almost self-deprecating, though he can barely breathe for the awed and admiring expression on Alfred’s face.

“You continue to impress,” Alfred says with as much of a smirk as he can manage given that all he can think about is having Arthur inside him. He traces his finger along the underside of it, thrilled as it twitches and swells. He spreads Arthur’s legs and settles on his knees between them. He holds one of Arthur’s thighs and kisses, nips, and bites at the smooth skin there, before wrapping his free hand around Arthur’s cock, stroking it to full hardness.

Arthur groans loudly. “Fuck, Alfred.” It’s so good. It’s so good to be touched, it’s so good to be touched so intently by Alfred. “Ah—! Christ!” he cries as Alfred licks him from base to tip and then he can’t think about anything anymore.

Alfred eagerly encircles the head of Arthur’s beautiful cock with his mouth, lavishly applying suction and pressing his tongue against the tip. He smiles internally when he has to hold Arthur’s hips down. He memorizes the taste and feel of it, pleased to have Arthur inside of him in any capacity. He takes more of Arthur into his mouth, relishing the silky texture and the swollen heaviness on his tongue, not even caring that Arthur’s size makes his jaw a bit sore.

One of Arthur’s hands clenches his sheets while the other falls into Alfred’s soft, golden hair with the intention of pulling him off. “Alfred… Alfred,” he rasps urgently. “Love, you have to… to stop or I’ll—”

Alfred releases him with a wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you hard again,” he promises, brushing the words over Arthur’s cock with his lips. He meets Arthur’s emerald gaze and can’t imagine why he ever worked so hard to steal mere minerals and baubles. “Wanna,” he inhales raggedly, “wanna taste you.”

Arthur makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “God yes.” His head falls back as Alfred swallows him to the hilt. Arthur forces himself to lift his head and look back down as every movement of Alfred relaxing his throat to accommodate his cock sends fireworks bursting in his brain. He pushes one hand through Alfred’s hair again, holding it back so he can look into those bright blue eyes which bore into him ravenously. “_Fuck_,” he groans. It won’t be long until Alfred gets his wish.

Alfred greedily sucks on Arthur’s cock, spurred on by the swearing and all the other sinful noises Arthur is apparently not aware he is making. Arthur throbs in his mouth and Alfred knows he’s close. His own cock is impossibly hard and dripping, but he deliberately keeps his hands off of himself. It’ll be that much sweeter when Arthur finally touches him. His hands are necessarily devoted to holding Arthur back from thrusting upwards anyway.

The pressure of Alfred’s mouth on him is nearly enough to short-circuit any other sensation, but it’s the pleased, little mewling sounds Alfred makes that finally tip Arthur over the edge. “Alfred—fuck—I’m going to—nnngghh…AHH!”

Alfred braces his hands harder and seals his lips around the head of Arthur’s cock again, rubbing his tongue against the underside, gleefully sucking Arthur’s orgasm out of him and reveling in his cry.

“Alfred, god, fuck, please, love, love, love. You’re so good. Fucking _fuck_.” Arthur babbles as he comes, vision going white and shimmering, not coherent for several moments.

Alfred’s eyelids flutter and he _moans_ as Arthur spills cum into his mouth. He doesn’t release Arthur until it’s over, holding the sticky fluid on his tongue until Arthur recovers enough to look at him.

Arthur pants heavily as he floats back down to his body. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. “Don’t think I’ll actually recover from that for a week or three.” He watches Alfred visibly swallow. He groans.

“Nah, you’ll be fine,” Alfred assures him, grinning impishly.

Arthur’s eyes roam over Alfred’s form, though his view is obstructed by black fabric. “But will you be?” he asks before he flips the thief onto his back. He licks his lips as his hands caress Alfred’s skin. “This is entirely too much clothing,” Arthur complains and drags Alfred’s pants down and the fact that Alfred isn’t wearing anything under them isn’t even a surprise. He doesn’t miss the way Alfred shivers as the fabric passes over his thighs and Arthur uses his keen observation to catalogue every reaction and what elicited it. He discards Alfred’s pants on the floor, hands quickly returning to Alfred’s flushed, heated skin.

Alfred squirms and whimpers as Arthur traces maddening patterns along his body with only the barest brushes of his fingertips. Next time he has the urge to paint, he’ll take his revenge. It might have tickled if his cock weren’t hard enough to make his head spin, but it is.

On his knees, Arthur leans over Alfred, kissing him. He takes one of Alfred’s wrists in his hands and guides Alfred to wrap his fingers around his own cock. “Touch yourself,” he commands. “Slowly.”

Alfred nearly sobs. It’s a fantasy come to life, for sure, but he wants _Arthur_ to touch him. Shaking, he does as he is told, gasping as Arthur watches not his hand, but his face. “Please,” he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut.

Arthur stares hungrily at the enticing shades of agonized deprivation crossing Alfred’s face. Supporting himself up on one arm, he raises his other hand to barely brush his fingertips over Alfred’s thighs, which he had noticed were quite responsive earlier.

Frayed moans tumble over Alfred’s lips as his body jolts, subconsciously spreading his legs farther apart and pumping his cock faster.

“Ah-ah,” Arthur warns, tracing more deliberate patterns along Alfred’s hypersensitive skin. “I said slowly, love,” he says and stops all movement until Alfred does as instructed. Satisfied, Arthur’s fingers continue their dance over Alfred’s inner thighs, random but meticulous, until Alfred is a quivering mess beneath him. Alfred’s cheeks are flushed, his lips parted and eyelids fluttering, and the sight of it clenches Arthur’s heart; leaving him breathless with the realization that he’ll never be happy unless he can do this to Alfred whenever he wants for the rest of their lives.

Alfred gasps in surprise as Arthur suddenly kisses him with so much desperation and ferocity that sends sparks of elation and longing through every neuron in his brain. He’s close. He tears away from the overwhelming kiss and looks down, groaning as he sees that Arthur is hard again. If he doesn’t have Arthur inside him soon, he’ll melt away into nothing. “Please, Arthur, god… fuck me, I want… I need it, need you, please.”

“Do you?” Arthur asks slyly and then showers Alfred’s face with kisses, smudging lingering breaths and teasing nips along his neck. He sits up on his knees and pulls his hand over his own cock as he watches Alfred do the same. He shivers and then grabs Alfred’s wrists, placing them forcefully on either side of Alfred’s head. “That’s enough,” he says. Retrieving the square, foil package, he opens it and sheathes himself before reaching for the lubricant.

Alfred whines in the back of his throat, wriggling without moving his hands as if they were actually bound. His head is empty of anything except bliss, empty of any memory of ever feeling unwanted, empty of any reasons he’d ever had for stealing art and jewels. Perfect, syrupy delirium saturates his mind, until the only coherent thing to hang onto is Arthur’s name thrumming in his veins.

Arthur hooks his arms under Alfred’s knees and yanks him forward. He coats his fingers with more lube pressing them against Alfred’s entrance as his left hand loosely strokes Alfred’s cock. Arthur’s gaze doesn’t leave Alfred’s face—flushed, eyes hooded and dark with lust, lips swollen and parted—as he dips one fingertip inside of him, not even past the first knuckle, over and over again.

Alfred’s hips jerk upwards and he cries out, sensitive even to so little, but it’s _Arthur_ touching him _finally_. His hands fist into the sheets beneath him. “Arthur… fuck, please—.” The arousal is so intense he almost can’t see, but he’s clear enough to meet those green eyes he’s still so drawn to and clear enough for his stomach to jump and his bones to burn and evaporate at what he sees them, even if he’s not clear enough to name any of it.

Arthur moves his left hand from Alfred’s cock to brace against his thigh and carefully presses one finger inside, this time to the last knuckle. He groans at how Alfred’s body tries to tug him in deeper, at how tight he is, tighter than he had expected—it’s clearly been awhile for him. Arthur pets Alfred’s thigh as a distraction from his mind insisting on imagining Alfred’s body around his cock. “God, you’re gorgeous, love,” he praises.

Alfred arches his hips with more intention. “Please, Arthur, more, more, more.”

Arthur obliges, just as carefully pushing a second finger inside of him and slowly sliding them in and out.

Alfred keens and gasps; Arthur’s warm fingers rubbing his walls are amazing, slightly rough and amazing, but his meticulously slow pace is absolute torture and Alfred wants more than his fingers.

Arthur gently scissors his fingers as he goes, marveling at the way Alfred’s body pulls them back in and how it makes his own cock harder than he’d been before. “You’re so good, my darling,” he purrs. “Such a good boy for me.” He pushes in deeply, massaging, searching.

His search is successful and Alfred nearly screams. “God. fuck. right there… fucking Christ!” Alfred squirms and lifts his hips as Arthur works his fingers against his prostate over and over again. “Ah—ah… fuck—AH! Arthur!” Cries dissolve into incoherent sobs and his hands frantically reach seek contact with Arthur’s body. One lands on Arthur’s shoulder while the other latches to his upper arm, the one abusing that spot. “Please,” he begs. “Fuck me, fuck me now, Arthur, please.”

Arthur grins, pleased and self-satisfied, and he withdraws his fingers and places his hand on Alfred’s hip. With the other, he grips his cock and presses it against Alfred’s entrance. It takes all of his considerable self-discipline and restraint not to bury himself immediately. He pushes in by millimeters while trying to keep Alfred still. “You’re doing so well, love.”

Alfred moans, clenching his grip on Arthur’s arm. “More, please more. I’m not gonna break,” he urges. He haphazardly, vacantly pets his own cock, which drips more pre-cum as a result.

Arthur shoves in the rest of the way by leaning over Alfred fully, affording him a fantastic view of Alfred’s dazed and desirous expression as he does so. He stays completely still for several moments; Alfred’s body squeezes his cock so much that it takes him that long to catch his breath. “You’re so bloody tight,” he murmurs, slightly strained.

Both of Alfred’s hands now cling to Arthur’s shoulders as his chest heaves—from gasping for air or the pure unnameable emotion, it’s impossible to say. “Nnnng… fuck, so full,” he babbles. Arthur’s cock is throbbing and so hot and it fits so perfectly inside of him and suddenly all that matters is getting Arthur to _move_. Alfred wraps his legs around Arthur’s waist in an attempt to coax him into doing so.

Arthur gets the hint, but ducks down to kiss Alfred instead, taking just another minute to revel in Alfred’s obvious pleasure. _Mine_, he thinks. When he moves, it’s steady, rolling, and shallow, just to drive himself in as deep as he possibly can. His head falls onto Alfred’s shoulder and Alfred’s fingers wind into his hair soon after. He hadn’t known just how badly he needed this, hadn’t known how much love had been pent up until just now as Alfred pulls his hair and exhales heatedly against his ear.

“More,” Alfred pleads. “Faster, Arthur, please.” He doesn’t even register how snugly his fingers are coiled in Arthur’s hair; it’s all too much, too overpowering and beneath the writhing currents of searing passion is a sense of wonder and yearning for this to be more than the continuation of their cat and mouse games. “More, more, more.”

Arthur pulls out further, thrusts in harder, faster. He slides one hand under Alfred’s knee, pushing his leg back, in awe of his flexibility, and pounds Alfred into his bed as if that would make him stay there forever. If he can’t profess his love with his words, he’ll do it with his body. And maybe the creaking of his bed frame as well.

Alfred matches his pace, pushing back against Arthur and fervently pumping his own cock, squeezing as Arthur hits his prostate. “There, right there, oh fuck, fuck me there—yes!” He forces Arthur closer with his legs, still wrapped around Arthur’s hips.

Arthur tries even though his own mounting pleasure makes his rhythm increasingly erratic. He releases Alfred’s knee and nudges his hand off of his cock, replacing it with his own. Alfred’s mewls and whimpers in Arthur’s ear scorch his blood and quicken his heart as he thrusts into him faster. “Mine,” he growls before he can think better of it and then realizing it, brutally kisses Alfred, stroking him harder, fucking him faster, hoping he won’t notice.

Alfred comes, crying against Arthur’s lips, comes the moment he heard Arthur’s ragged, possessive declaration. If he could be honest with himself, it’s what he really wants, but soaring, white-hot ecstasy rushes through him all at once. His body snaps taut and he spills on Arthur’s hand and over his stomach.

Arthur follows suit not seconds after; Alfred’s suddenly tense body wrenching his climax from him. “Fuck, bloody hell, _Alfred_, so good… so tight, ahhh—_fuck_.” Convinced that nothing has ever felt so amazing before, his heart swells as he catches his breath. Arthur stands, disposing of the condom and admiring Alfred melted and spread over his sheets. There’s nothing else here. He’s not a detective and Alfred isn’t a jewel thief, not right now.

Right now, all that exists in the world is Alfred’s damp golden hair, euphoric, unfocused blue eyes, flushed skin and cum-stained stomach. Arthur almost laughs as he moves toward the bathroom.

“No,” Alfred whines. “Don’t leave.”

Arthur’s stomach flips in an oddly pleasant way. “I’ll be right back, love. I’ve got to clean you up.”

Alfred sighs contentedly, grinning as he appreciates the strong lines of Arthur’s body. Earlier, before Arthur got home, he had told himself he would leave if he needed to, but all thought of that has vanished entirely. Why would he leave? Why would he _ever_ leave? Arthur returns with a damp washcloth and Alfred hums happily as he cleans him off. When Arthur is done, Alfred pulls him down onto the bed with the last of his strength, tangling their legs together.

Arthur goes willingly, holding Alfred against him. “Sated, are you?” he asks, even though the answer is evident by Alfred purring and nuzzling his neck.

Alfred’s lips curl lasciviously. “Mmm for now,” he murmurs. “Aren’t you?”

Arthur presses kisses against Alfred’s forehead and on his hair, inhaling deeply. There’s no smell of perfume, just Alfred. Perfect. “Yes,” he answers. “You’re bloody brilliant.”

Alfred’s eyes are closing, a satisfied sleep taking hold of him. “You too,” he mumbles. “You’re so good, totally awesome.”

As Alfred goes slack and heavy against him, Arthur commits those words, that tone, this whole night to memory. After his ex-boyfriend had declared him the worst lover ever, nothing is more exhilarating than having it proven wrong, than feeling and seeing and hearing Alfred’s ravished exaltation. Arthur banishes thoughts of anyone else, no one else matters as he drifts into slumber; it’s only fair. After all, Alfred would never compare _him_ to someone else.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Sunlight is only just poking in through the shutters and it tickles Arthur awake. In the moment before he opens his eyes, his stomach drops as he realizes Alfred is no longer in his arms, but opening them blearily assuages him.

Alfred is next to him, limbs everywhere, hair completely mussed, mouth open a little as he breathes steadily. His face is unguarded and peaceful, his form limp and relaxed, leading Arthur to wonder when the last time was that thief had a proper night’s sleep. At the least, it is gratifying to Arthur that Alfred seems to feel safe in his bed.

And he didn’t leave, Arthur’s mind thrills, he hasn’t woken up to a note with a little spade drawn on it as he had feared. The blankets have fallen to expose Alfred’s torso down to the light curve of his hip. This is the highest happiness, to wake up to the beautiful man he loves. Isn’t it what everyone wants? He runs his palm gently over Alfred’s side, landing on his hipbone. It won’t last. Alfred will disappear sooner rather than later, though Arthur can’t help but feel like there is hope.

He smiles sleepily and rolls Alfred toward him, back into his arms. Sooner isn’t now. “Mine,” he whispers as he falls back to sleep.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

A little while later, Alfred wakes up to a leg over his hip, an arm over his shoulder, and a warm feeling sitting effervescent and sparkling in his chest.

He glances up as best he can without moving too much. Arthur is still sleeping, his handsome face relaxed and contented. His thick eyebrows, normally so stern, are at ease and there’s a trace of a smile on his lips. Alfred reaches up to brush his thumb over that smile.

This is nice.

Too nice.

Logically, Alfred knows that now is the time to slip away, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’ll have to leave sooner rather than later, but he’ll be back. He couldn’t stay away now even if he tried. His body is sore, but it reminds him of deep closeness and rapturous bliss more than anything. He wants Arthur to have him again. And again. And again. He wants to be close, to feel wanted like that every day.

There’s light coming in the window, though Alfred can’t see anything to indicate what time it is, but sooner isn’t now. He can stay a little longer.

He might even be able to have breakfast this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments make me stupidly happy.


	11. Sweeter Just to Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the liminal glow of “The Morning After,” Arthur learns something about Alfred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to get a feel for this again. I'm not giving up. I'll see one thing through to the end if it kills me damn it XD

Arthur wakes up once more, due to a sudden weight on his chest that disappears after a moment. Eyes blinking open, he realizes it Alfred leaning over him. The thief is still there. Amazing.

Alfred clutches his prize and sits up, smiling down at the detective and turning the small gold pineapple figure he had created over in his hands. “Morning,” he says. He hadn’t made any concrete guesses as to where Arthur might have kept it, but seeing it on his nightstand had sent warmth rising in Alfred’s chest.

Arthur stretches languorously and yawns, tilting his head toward the window briefly. The shade is still drawn, but the sun is bright behind it. “Is it still?” he asks, grinning languidly. It’s a rhetorical question, the time of day certainly doesn’t matter. Not right now. His body is relaxed, but no longer quite sated and the vast expanses of Alfred’s skin are beginning to look more and more enticing. “How are you?” he asks pointedly.

Alfred presses his thumb into the small ridges and lines of the trinket. “Awesome,” he says. “You?”

Arthur rolls over and reaches his hand out to smooth over Alfred’s thigh. “Bloody brilliant.” He looks at what Alfred has in his hands. “Where did you get that anyway?” he asks curiously. He’s wondered ever since Alfred had given it to him.

Alfred glances at him and then at the pineapple. “I made it.”

Arthur’s hand stills on Alfred’s leg, but doesn’t fall away. “Did you? So… you’re a jeweler?”

Alfred presses the pineapple into Arthur’s palm and instead of answering yes or no, he says “Didn’t Abigail show you the ring I gave her?”

“No,” Arthur says cautiously, feeling like he has a glimpse now of something foundational about Alfred and not wanting to lose it.

“Oh,” Alfred says, knowing Abigail probably didn’t want Arthur to assume it was stolen. “Well, ask her about it when she gets back.”

Alfred’s expression reads as somewhat lost and it’s troubling. Arthur places the pineapple back on his nightstand and pulls Alfred down, kissing him until he’s pliable enough to push back against the mattress. There are dishes to do and take-out to throw away, but all he wants to do is make love to Alfred. Not the Thief of Spades, not even Alfred Jones who wears the Thief of Spades as a mask, but Alfred—not a thief at all, but a creator of beautiful things, someone whose appreciation for gems clearly goes beyond mere sparkle.

He wants to make love to Alfred and keep him there forever, but it would never work. Alfred would leave and even just the thought of that pain tells Arthur that it’s better to let things be as they are for the moment.


	12. Mistaken Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt contemplates Alfred the unsolvable puzzle as he pulls off an assignment for the enigmatic thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can expect the next few chapters or so to be a return to the same sort of style/format that the first chapters of season 1 were. It’s just to kinda get the story flowing.

Matthew sits on a bench just outside the museum, trying to quell the butterflies in his stomach. The assignment is so simple and as usual, Alfred has planned for everything so it’s not even dangerous. Is this how Alfred feels before a heist? Matthew imagines not. Alfred is so cool and collected all the time. He probably shuts his emotions completely down before committing a crime.

Matthew certainly isn’t very practiced at that. He’s a very even-keeled person, he likes to think, but a high stress situation for him took the shape of an exam or a presentation or teaching an unruly class of undergraduates… until he met Alfred, that is.

Why would Alfred even put up with it?

Why is the question the grad student keeps asking himself in relation to the thief. Alfred is charming and enigmatic, clearly intelligent, handsome (if Matt says so himself), outgoing and friendly.

Why steal? Why steal anything when surely the world would hand itself on a silver platter to someone like Alfred?

Matthew does what he can to keep his curiosity in check. There has to be some reason, but he believes Alfred when the thief says the less Matthew knows, the better.

He rubs his right thumb over the back of his left hand and breathes. The assignment is simple. All Matt has to do is wander the museum for awhile, letting the cameras catch him and wait. If, after half an hour, no one has approached him, Alfred had said to leave, go home, and not think about it anymore.

As if not thinking about it were possible.

Sometimes imagining Alfred’s life is all Matt can think about. It isn’t anything more than Alfred being exasperatingly mysterious—a puzzle with no solutions, despite what Gilbert says, not that Matthew has really told Gil anything, but he is detective sergeant, after all. Matthew had ended up saying that there was a weird rich guy who had become very interested in Matthew’s team’s research. Gilbert still ribs him about a potential crush, knowing full well how much Matt loves him.

Matt doesn’t really know how to tell him that that would just be outrageously narcissistic and creepy as hell.

He has thought about asking Gilbert who Alfred is. Gilbert works with theft and robbery cases all the time, he would have to know something.

But Alfred made a deal with Matt and he’s more than held up his end so far.

Matthew stands up and head toward the doors of the museum. Surely, the less he knows, the better.

He buys a ticket and wanders through the various exhibits, wondering which one, if any, Alfred is interested in. Matt can’t help but think that it’s the gem exhibit, on loan from the Gem-A. He chuckles to himself as he can only imagine Alfred being the sort to obsess over “shiny things.”

At around the twenty-minute mark, Matthew notices one of the guards has begun to follow him. The guard is mostly discreet, but Matt had been expecting it. He remembers Alfred’s instructions:

_“If they approach you, just stay calm and do whatever they ask. They’ll probably only ask for your ID so they can scan it. I’ve made you an exact replica, but this one has randomized information on it. Leave your real one at home so you won’t get them mixed up. They won’t have good reason to hold you, so once they let you go, hang around for about ten minutes and then head out.”_

_“Why am I doing this, again?”_

_Alfred had frowned slightly. “I just want to see how good their facial recognition software is and if they have me flagged.”_

Matthew continues wandering around, trying his best to remain calm and act as though he doesn’t notice that he’s being followed.

“Pardon me, sir,” the guard finally approaches him, holding an electronic device in his hand. “Would you come with me for a moment?”

Matt nods and follows him. “May I ask what this is about?” he says once they’re in a more secluded part of the museum.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, sir. Might I see your identification?”

Matthew hands him the replica of his Oxford ID and allows him to scan it.

The device makes a few beeping noises and then a chime. The guard looks up from it and smiles politely. “As I suspected, a mere case of mistaken identity. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Daniels, please enjoy the museum.”

Matt smiles back in kind as the guard hands him his fake ID, responding to the name as if it were his own. “Thank you.” He wanders off, choosing to browse a sculpture exhibit instead. He realizes that it would probably raise suspicion if he left immediately. He pulls out his phone to text Alfred.

_I was followed and then they asked for my ID. Took them about twenty minutes._

Alfred replies very quickly,

_That’s what I needed to know. thanks Matt._

After about fifteen minutes or so, Matthew strolls out of the museum with some elevated measure adrenaline rushing through him. Is this what Alfred feels like when he’s pulled off a heist? He can admit that it does feel kind of… exciting.

He walks to the train station, breathing steadily. He reminds himself of his own life, of his job at the university, his studies, his boyfriend. These things calm him, make him feel warm and happy. Let Alfred keep the excitement.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Arthur looks up as an analyst pops her head in the door. He’s alone in the conference room Gabriel and Alice are using as a base. “Yes?”

“Just thought you’d like to know, Inspector. Facial recognition caught Jones at a museum with a gem exhibit.”

“Was he apprehended?” Arthur asks evenly, though excitement bubbles up in his stomach.

“No, it turned out to be a false alarm, actually.”

“Really? But that’s not terribly uncommon, isn’t it?”

“Facial recognition is always improving, but you’re correct. I have the name of the person who apparently bares enough resemblance to Jones to be flagged though, if you want it.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“Bryan Daniels. Twenty-three years old, he’s on a student visa from the US doing graduate work at Oxford. The guard’s scanner doesn’t seem to have picked up an image, but those things can be so tricky.”

Arthur scribbles the information down. “Thank you, that’s good to know.” The analyst leaves and Arthur looks at the name scrawled on his paper. Bryan Daniels. It can’t be a coincidence that he so closely resembles Alfred.

Arthur sighs. What is Alfred planning now?


	13. Cappuccino and Longing -Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig's typical evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter only mentions usuk, it's mostly GerIta

Ludwig knows well enough that his only function on Costa’s team is to serve as a typical Interpol liaison and to essentially represent the EU in the investigation of the Thief of Spades. He sighs and shakes his head slightly as he steps out of the CIA’s London headquarters and head out onto the misty streets. It’s been gloomy all day.

He also knows well enough that there’s something Costa and Clark are not telling him, which is very typical and not usually cause for any suspicion, but Ludwig doesn’t quite understand what the fuss over Alfred Jones is about.

He rather admires the thief, actually. He has never been violent; he has helped people in trouble with some regularity, even before the women at Taylor’s estate; compared to some of the criminals Ludwig has pursued, the Thief of Spades seems relatively harmless, a fact that should seem obvious to experienced international agents like Costa and Clark.

They clearly don’t share Hedevary’s or Francis’ grudges.

Let the Metro Police service deal with someone like Jones, especially considering he seems to only be interested in Inspector Kirkland these days. Why continue to dog someone so comparatively non-threatening?

It doesn’t make sense to Ludwig with the information he has access to, there are definitely pieces of the puzzle missing.

Though he doesn’t often envy Kirkland, given how much stress Jones’ interest seems to cause him; or how much heartache, if Ludwig is reading the situation correctly.

But it doesn’t matter right now. The day is over, it’s late, but Ludwig doesn’t feel tired.

Ludwig marches to the sound of his own pristine shoes on the footway, careful to avoid any accumulating puddles. He has a clear destination in mind and just the thought of it pleases him.

He keeps his suspicions about the investigation to himself as a tactical maneuver, waiting to see which side will win out (though he roots for Jones), but also because he’s not terribly eager to be assigned away from London.

He stops and peers into the lighted window of a sleek, but cozy Italian coffeeshop, smiling softly as he opens the door.

“Ve~! Ludwig! Buon giorno!” a bright greeting calls out and Ludwig can absolutely see sparkling brown eyes from his spot near the door.

Ludwig sidles past the tables where other patrons are sat, chatting quietly or reading or working on laptops, and up to the counter. “Good evening, Feliciano.”

“Oh god, the kraut’s back. Can’t you two just get married already so you don’t have to keep coming here?” Lovino, the cruder twin whom Ludwig has wholly learnt to ignore, chimes in.

Ludwig doesn’t particularly like coffee or anything, certainly not enough to hang out at a boutique Italian coffeeshop as regularly as he does. He has usually preferred beer after work, but he’d had to meet a colleague at this place once and he’s been coming back ever since. Because he particularly likes the rather charming co-owner/barista standing before him.

The Thief of Spades is the furthest thing from his mind especially when Feliciano is blushing like that.

“What can I get for you?” Feliciano asks, pointedly pouting at his brother briefly.

“Just a cappuccino, please.”

“Coming right up,” Feliciano smiles and it’s as if the entire day before now never happened in Ludwig’s mind, though his face hardly shows it beyond a polite grin. Ludwig sometimes wishes he could be more animated, like the twins are, but many years in Interpol have reinforced his natural stoic demeanor. So much so that Feliciano doesn’t even know Ludwig works for Interpol, and instead assumes that he is a typical international business man. It’s better that way. Not only could he be assigned away at almost any moment, but life as an Interpol agent is dangerous and close relationships only complicate things.

It’s not as if he were a local police officer… or inspector.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it,” Lovino grouses over Ludwig’s order, pulling a ceramic cup from a stack.

“No you’re not,” Feliciano counters. “You’ll make it poorly on purpose, go away. Go clean tables or something.” Feliciano grins cutely, apologetically at him, turning pink again, but he’s not wrong, Lovino has deliberately given Ludwig terrible coffee in the past.

Ludwig enjoys the cafe and Feliciano’s company, even to the point that the lithe, lovely Italian man has sat with Ludwig through his periodic breaks. They’ve talked and given Ludwig’s ability to read people, a skill any agent must develop, he knows that Feliciano likes him, he’s probably even waiting for Ludwig to ask him out.

And he wants to.

But Ludwig is very aware of his own feelings, that he likes Feliciano more than he should. He likes Feliciano more than any international agent of any sort should like anyone, certainly more than they should like a civilian.

So he can’t ask Feliciano out. But he can’t stop coming to the cafe. And sometimes, he does envy Arthur Kirkland.


	14. I'll Follow You Into the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspector Kirkland’s lawful good tendencies square off with his feelings for Alfred. Meanwhile, the Thief of Spades realizes he’s made a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to a reviewer called TheArunian for leaving a really lovely review and prompting me to finish this chapter.

Arthur plods through the front door, dropping his bag and tossing his coat onto the hook. “Hi, Mum!” he calls out.

“In the kitchen, Artie!” Abigail calls back.

Arthur finds her sitting at the kitchen table, kisses his mother’s cheek, and then collapses into a chair at the kitchen table and smiles exhaustedly.

Abigail pushes a covered plate in front of him, removing the cover to reveal dinner, for which he is late as usual. “Long day?” she asks.

Arthur shovels a few bites of food in before answering. “It wasn’t, but then I got a memo that facial recognition at a museum flagged Alfred.”

Abigail’s eyes widen. “Is he alright? Did they arrest him?”

Shaking his head, Arthur frowns. “No, apparently it wasn’t him, nor any of his known aliases. It was some bloke named Bryan Daniels. They didn’t get a proper image of him, but I seriously doubt it’s a coincidence. Alfred must be planning something and I… I don’t know, Mum.” He pokes at his food despondently.

Abigail frowns too, almost perfectly mirroring her son. Arthur had been in rather good spirits when she’d returned yesterday, even before she had shown him pictures of his new niece and she had easily guessed why, but hadn’t said anything about it. “Arthur,” she says gently, “even if you told him how you felt, you didn’t think he’d change overnight, did you?”

“I didn’t tell him. That’s not what happened, it was just…”

It had clearly not been “just” anything, but Abigail doesn’t comment on that either. She had promised she wouldn’t betray Alfred’s trust, but she is rather obliged to comfort her son and perhaps point him in the right direction. “There’s more to his motivations than it seems at first. I’m certain it’s not simply about money or possessions or the thrill or even getting a rise out of you.”

“How do you know?” Arthur asks, looking over at her and realizing instantly from the expression on her face that she absolutely is not going to tell him, though it stings that not only would Alfred talk to her so openly and not him, but also that his own mother would keep information about the person he loves secret from him. He knows why on both counts, but it still hurts. “Never mind,” he mumbles. He glances over at her hand, seeing the ring Alfred had mentioned. He’d almost forgotten about it. “He gave you that?” he says. “The ring he made?”

Smiling, Abigail slips it off of her finger and hands it to Arthur. “Yes. For Christmas.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Abigail just gives him a pointed look.

Arthur turns his attention to the stone. Even without a loupe, he can see that the sapphire is very high quality. The craftsmanship of the ring itself is exquisite, the same as the pineapple. The hallmark is the same as the pineapple as well: the stylized initials, AFJ. The A and J must be for Alfred Jones, if so, the F must stand for a middle name. “It’s… spectacular, really,” he murmurs, handing it back to his mum.

Abigail hums. “Yes, he’s clearly very talented.” She slides the ring back onto her finger. “What will you do, Artie? Are you going to tell the agents what you know?”

Arthur scruffs his hand through his hair and sighs heavily. “How could I tell them? There’s something going on here, Mum. I don’t think they’re after him just for being a jewel thief, but I’ve no idea what the deeper story is. But then why is he allowing me so close to him and still going through with whatever he’s planned? For all he knows, I could turn him in at any moment.”

“But you won’t,” Abigail asks, but it’s not a question.

“No, I could never. Not now, not anymore. If I turn him in, I’ll never see him again. I want him to stay, Mum. I don’t know if he’s even capable of that.”

Abigail leans Arthur’s head toward her and kisses his temple. “Well he certainly won’t stay if he doesn’t know he can trust you, will he?”

Arthur looks down at his plate, mind racing. His mum is right. He knows what he needs to do and he can hear the metaphorical glass on his moral compass cracking. Without speaking, he stands up and heads toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

Arthur roughly jams his feet in his shoes and shoves his arms into his coat. “To do something very stupid,” he grouses. “I have to help him. And don’t try to talk me out of it,” he says, almost hoping she will, but knowing she won’t. 

Abigail hides the grin tugging at her lips by covering her mouth with her hand and leaning on the table as she watches her son once more struggle between the law and what’s right. “Alright dear, don’t get caught.”

Arthur makes his way to the Underground, deliberately ignoring the arrow of that moral compass pointing emphatically in the direction of home as well as the little rush whooshing around his stomach—a reflex leftover from his days as a juvenile delinquent. 

When he reaches the CIA building, he stares up at it. It looms over him like a school teacher commanding him to return to class. The giddy remnants of youthful defiance give a two-fingered salute and he marches through the doors, heading straight for the room where he would normally meet Costa and Clark. He’s not surprised to see that the rest of the place seems to be running just as it does during the day, though with different faces. The pass he was given allows him access to where he needs to go, despite his handlers’ day being over.

If anyone asks, he’ll say he had some late-night epiphany about the case.

He sits down at one of the laptops in the conference room where they meet. He doesn’t have anyone else’s credentials other than his own, but he does have access to most of Alfred’s files and with any luck, the information will be there. Arthur taps away on the keyboard, searching for the name of the alias one of the analysts had given him earlier. If anyone ever goes looking for that information and finds it gone, he will be undeniably on record as the one who deleted it.

Since he was the only one around at the time to receive the information directly, he has good reason to believe that won’t happen. Or rather he hopes he has good reason.

It’s worth it to try and keep Alfred safe. He justifies it, morally, with ever-increasing confidence that whatever Costa and Clark are meant to be doing, it isn’t incessantly dogging a jewel thief, notorious though he may be.

When Arthur finds the information he’s looking for, namely Alfred’s alias and the record of the incident at the museum, he changes what he can and then deletes it. He knows it’s still on the CIA’s mainframe somewhere, but at least it won’t be there to prompt anyone to ask questions about it.

He messes with some of the physical files, opens a few other documents from some other heist to leave a leading away from his actual purpose and then heads home, riding the train and imposing a kind of numbness on himself. It’s just to buy time, isn’t it? It’s just to buy time so he can show Alfred that he can be trusted, so that he can maybe… maybe show Alfred a different life.

His mum is already asleep by the time he gets there and he collapses into bed but doesn’t sleep, the arrow of his moral compass now spinning aimlessly as his heart thumps assuredly in his chest.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“Hey, kiddo! Nice of you to actually call this time. Normally, it’s just an encrypted Ames, do this. Ames, change that. Ames, make sure no one knows where the bodies are buried. Ames, ship me some lye.”

Alfred laughs as the strikingly bubbly CIA analyst lays on the guilt and in the same breath giggles on the other end of the encrypted call from a burner phone. “Sorry,_ Mom_, if you want me to call more often, you shouldn’t be so hard to get ahold of,” he counters.

“I know, darlin’, but you know how it is. I’m technically not supposed to talk to you after all. Not without turning you in, anyway.” Amelia leans back in her computer chair, thousands of miles away, in her apartment near Langley, smiling. “You’re a real troublemaker, you know?”

Alfred has never met Amelia in person, he knows her through Kiku. She is one of Kiku’s many contacts within the CIA, but Alfred likes to think of her as more or less his fairy godmother. “Aw, you wouldn’t really turn me in.” He’s asking without asking. Amelia is fond of him, but her loyalties definitely don’t lie with him.

“‘Course not, kiddo,” she says the way she always does, as if their age gap were much larger than it actually is, and taps her pen against the desk. “What can I do ya for?”

Alfred bites his lip for a moment. “I did something dumb, Amelia.”

She frowns, thousands of miles away, “Now that’s just not like you,” she says seriously. “Don’t tell me what you did, just tell me what you need me to do.”

Alfred sighs. He should have thought it through a little further before sending Matt into that museum. “I need you to erase all traces of an alias I made. The details should be in your email.” He tugs off his glasses and scrubs his hand over his face.

“You called me just for that? You know how to do that,” she says, almost snappishly without meaning for it to be, so she quickly adds, “Not that I mind, it’s just not typical.” She turns to her computer and opens the email.

Alfred slides his glasses back on. “I just need it to be super thorough. I know you always are, but this isn’t my alias.”

Amelia blinks as she looks at a color photo of the ID Alfred made. The picture is definitely not Alfred, but he’d be a dead-ringer in the right light. “Who is this?” she asks on impulse. “Wait don’t tell me. You got it, Al. Bryan Daniels will be extra super deleted.”

“Thanks, Ames.”

“Of course, hun.” Through her keyboard, she slips easily into the CIA’s mainframe, navigating her way to the most likely place where information on Alfred’s alias might be centrally stored. “You want me to just delete that one, right?”

“Yeah,” Alfred replies, “just that one.”

“Mmkay,” she says. While waiting for it to load properly, she smiles and bites her cheek a little before saying, “So you fancy that British bobby, do you?” she says in a fake English accent.

Alfred feels his face get hot even though she can’t see him… at least he’s pretty sure she can’t see him. “You know about him?”

She hums. “Kiku keeps me up to speed. I gotta keep you safe, you know? You don’t make it easy though, consorting with law enforcement and all, even if he is only a metro detective.”

Alfred sputters a little. “I… we’re not—”

“Relax, Al, I’m just teasing ya. Frankly, I think it’s good to see you interested in something that isn’t cold and shiny.” Her eyes track the computer and she frowns as nothing on Bryan Daniels pops up initially. “Huh.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, the information just isn’t where I thought it would be. Hang on, I’ll look somewhere else.” Amelia follows the network of Alfred’s files and eventually finds the alias, but it had clearly been removed from its more conspicuous locations by—oh. “Alfred.”

Alfred’s heart hammers in his chest. “What? Did you find it?”

“Yeah, I found it,” Amelia says as she begins the process of actually erasing the alias’ existence. “But, uh, your detective, he… well it looks like he went in last night and deleted the info from the most obvious places. He doesn’t have enough access to do what I can do of course, but it looks like he was trying to conceal it. No one’s even accessed it other than him, so that’s lucky. Damn, you know, if you hadn’t called me, he definitely would have gotten caught for that and into some trouble for sure. Pretty bold move, really.”

The phone nearly slips from Alfred’s hand.

“Alfred?”

“Y-yeah, I’m still here.”

“Okay, well it’s all gone now. You’re in the clear.”

Alfred takes a deep breath. He is definitely anything but in the clear. “Thanks Ames, you’re the best.”

“You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m good.”

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything else, okay? Catch you later.”

“Thanks. I will. Bye.” The call is disconnected and Alfred slumps over his bench, turning a wax carving over in his fingers as he stares at it, unseeing. 

He hasn’t been this sloppy since… well, he hasn’t been this sloppy in a long time. Something in his brain must be malfunctioning. He could always be counted on to be calculating, meticulous, and detached before. Mistakes are few and far between. This isn’t like him.

Part of it is the thought of taking on an organization like Gem-A.

Alfred has never targeted the Gem-A, nor the GIA either. It’s always better to leave sprawling, powerful shadow organizations masquerading so successfully as educational ones alone. Now, though, Gem-A has the Trickster’s Heart, sure to be a wonderful specimen of alexandrite, worthy of royalty (and there have been whispers that the gem might be cut for the Queen). 

Alfred wants it for Arthur. Because Arthur deserves the best. Doesn’t the lovely inspector work so hard? He deserves beautiful things. Alfred wants him to have beautiful things.

It occurs to Alfred, as he had known with the pineapple, that it’s not right for him to give Arthur anything he has stolen, but Alfred can just feel it in his blood that this stone should belong to Arthur. He’ll just have to devise a way to take it that will leave Gem-A unable to report it stolen, unable to claim it as theirs. There has to be a way, Alfred just needs to find the right leverage.

It does not, however, occur to Alfred why he’s so willing to risk his freedom and even his life like this for Arthur… not even for Arthur, but just to present him with a gift Alfred deems worthy of him. He does know, deep down he knows because the answer is so obvious, elegant and even cliche in its simplicity.

And he cannot name it.

And it’s making him sloppy.

And Matt could have suffered the consequences of it.

Arthur could have suffered the consequences of it.

Alfred flips through the notes he’s made detailing the progress of translating the Gem-A’s code. He has to make sure that there are no consequences to suffer—for Matt, Arthur, or himself.

And, more specifically, he has to find out why Arthur tried to delete the alias he’d created for Matt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos are love. Comments are life.


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